


Pepparkakor

by TheOnlyHuman



Series: i'll tell you my sins, so you can sharpen your knives [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (it geralt he gets hard for jas in a dress), AU - Modern: Still Witchers Sorceresses and Whoresons, Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, BAMF Jaskier, Canon-Typical Violence, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Ships It, Competent Jaskier, Crossdressing Kink, Empress Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Everybody Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Genderfluid Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Gorthur Gvaed, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Imprisonment, Jaskier needs a hug, Jaskier | Dandelion In A Dress, Jaskier's family is the Vipers, Leader Jaskier, Long-Haired Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Master of the Viper Witchers Jaskier, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Mind Control, Multi, Nilfgaard, Non-Chronological Narrative, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Nonbinary Character, Polyamory, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier, Queen Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, RAPE WARNINGS ARE FOR CHAPTER 19/ SKIPPABLE, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, STREGOBOR is a warning of his own, Schizophrenia, School of the Viper (The Witcher), Stregobor Being an Asshole (The Witcher), Supportive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Aiden (The Witcher), Viper witcher Jaskier, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, aka everyone is really old but still looks young because magic and mutagens, au - modern day, au - the vipers fought back against the sacking and they won, ciri is supportive, dont do a geralt and accept a rent invite through a craigslist ad, kidnapped witchers, lambert's vodka kicks ass, long term imprisonment, this fic is literally called 'pepper cookies' because it is, this fic is self-indulgence to the max, told you he was bamf, with past in here too dont worry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:13:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 123,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24510607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOnlyHuman/pseuds/TheOnlyHuman
Summary: He spurned his enemies, raised his brothers to fight against the scum of Nilfgaard, and all for what? To be alive in the twenty-first century and have an apartment with a Wolf witcher? It seems so.It also seems trouble follows witchers whenever possible.Letho says he's mad. Jaskier simply smiles because he passed that threshold centuries ago.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Ivar Evil-Eye & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Jaskier | Dandelion/Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet
Series: i'll tell you my sins, so you can sharpen your knives [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822972
Comments: 129
Kudos: 208
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother), Polyamorous Relationships For the Win





	1. and then, they were roommates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: mentions of murder/killing people, swearing, brief suggestions of hypersensitivity, blood/ injury, mention of stigma over witchers, paranoia - sleeping with knives under pillows, acute senses attuned to light sleeping, etc.
> 
> If there's any I've missed please say.

The locking bolt of the window jumped, once, twice, then flipped open. Slowly, in the darkness only cast by the lack of a moon's shine, the window eased higher and higher until it stopped inches away from the clicking point. A shadow emerged from the cold of night, all sleek lines and jagged grace, prowling into the small laundry room like it beloned there. It set one foot atop the top of the dryer, soiled boots leaving stark imprints on the clean towel previously left there in anticipation of this very moment. Never let it be said a ruthless man was one without preparation.

Quickly but quietly — as if the shadow was afraid something would grab ahold of it and tug it back out the window, the infuriated family of those they'd killed perhaps, or another monster to deal with — the figure twisted into the room. Amidst the clothes racks and machinery, it stood, peeling off kevlar armour and black clothes. In the corner a small digital clock glowed, its reflective surface dulled in the wake of a personified shadow.

The shadow sniffed the air, muscles coiling tight as it stooped, shoving its clothes into the washing machine. A scentless detergent followed the clothes before the figure snapped the door shut, tapping a few buttons before the machine grumbled to life. In the wake of noise, the shadow rolled its shoulders out, resulting in a great, hollow crack that could've stirred the dead from their graves.

In the room, they stood, eyes begging for purchase in the early hue. The sun had not yet risen but this affected not the man, for as blind as their eyes were in the dark, they had smell and sound, and that had done them centuries longer than anything else. The clock atop the folding chair claimed it was four in the morning but the shadow knew the hour had skipped forwards and it was now five. Having stripped down to their boxers, they reached to change the time, fiddling softly with the back of the tiny box.

Finally, when the time was fixed and the shadow was satisfied, the figure of black let out a low hiss and grabbed the loose rope tunic that hung on the back of the stool. If another being had've been in the room to witness an event such as this, they would've noted the multitude of silvery scars lining the man's body, but as it was the shadows could not speak reverence and the man was not in a mood to talk as he pulled on a pair of shorts from within the dryer.

Outside the room, past the window, in the confines of a city that shunned the monsters that lurked amongst them, a bird chittered, sounding far off and all too close all at once. The man strode forwards, feet barely making a sound as they slapped off the cool tile. Their heartbeat was slow, as any witcher would've realised, but their brain whirled in circles, spinning webs and crafting slippery words suitable even for the most depraved of soul; words that could snap a man in half sooner than the shadow's blades could.

The numbers on the clock changed. The figure took a moment to blink at them, having always struggled with the change over from old elven numericals. The clock now read five fifteen and with a sigh the man pulled shut the window they'd crawled through before assuring themself that their clothes were being washed. But, instead of going to bed, as any human would've, the man grabbed his blades and honing rod before sitting on the stool that sat crooked in the corner.

Geralt stopped outside the apartment door. It was a dull blue, nothing special aside from the golden painted _28_ on it. The numbers swirled pleasingly, painted vines around them dropping down nearly so far as to curl around the door handle. The witcher wondered how the landlord had allowed the renter to paint such a thing.

Beside him, Lambert snorted.

"This it?" His youngest brother snarked. Geralt didn't need to turn to know his hands were on his hips, smirk plastered on, thick and cocky. Not for the first time since that morning, he wished Eskel, or even Coën, had been available to help out. "Looks a bit weird."

Truly, Geralt didn't care. All he needed was somewhere to stay after the last shitstorm of a landlord had found out he was a witcher and kicked him out (or, as common day folk didn't believe in the stories of them, he was allegedly a _hunter_ in a city. The landlord had asked him why the fuck he was there before giving him his eviction notice, saying he didn't want pelts stinking up the place despite the only animal inside being Roach - dead or alive.). Vesemir had offered him a place at Kaer Morhen once more but Geralt had long overdone his time in the mountains. In the modern day, this current age, he wanted to be free to roam even more than he had in the past. A stuffy castle was no longer his place, maybe for the winters yes - but only the winters. Plus, he needed to blend in. Where better a place to be than a small city on the outskirts of the second most dangerous forest in the Continent? Constant contracts promised (at least as many contracts as one could get in a world of non-believers and receding monster numbers). Ideal for a witcher.

He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the door opening. A lithe man appeared, leaning on the soft wood of the door frame. The newcomer wore a grey leather neck-rope tunic reminiscent of centuries ago and blue high-shorts that left nothing to the imagination; from the sinewy thighs to coarse biceps this man, for all his modest scent, was built like a panther and coiled ready to strike to boot, with a multitude of scars littering every visible surface, his right leg in particular looking overly grizzly. The man's telling amber eyes seemed to gleam in the early midday light that radiated down the hallway from the far-side wall windows. He'd rented this apartment solely due to the elven under the title - oblivious to all but the 'ancient ones' (as the newer generation had taken to calling them in their tales) - a soft _, non-humans welcome._

What caught Geralt's attention was the scar that trailed down the man's face, a long jagged thing that he was sure he should recognise but couldn't past the long brown hair. It was almost like Eskel's but longer. The witcher's hair was curled into a braid, slipped around the man's shoulder. It wavered in the air, stopping only when it reached to the man's navel. The grin he wore like a trophy was bright and dangerous.

He smelt like honeysuckle and mildew, cornflowers but seasalt, raisins yet _spicy._ Underneath all of that there was the familiar _whiskey-ice-old_ smell that only belonged to witchers.

"Dzien dobry panie,” he nodded, meaning: 'h-llo sir'. Literal: 'good day to you sir'.

Lambert flinched ramrod straight as that grin was directed towards him, the old elven a cool blessing to their ears.

"What can a simple soul such as I do for two strapping lads such as you?" Despite the old words the lilt to his voice paired with the way the man's eyes fluttered had Geralt rethinking his decision.

Maybe renting through Craigslist wasn't the best idea after all.

"I'm here to rent," Geralt explained. "I seen your ad on Craigslist."

Amber eyes shuttered, not flicked like a cat's as the Wolves' were, instead with pupils so thin they looked like a snake's. There was a small difference between each of the School's eyes, although Geralt had hardly met enough witchers to employ such knowledge. He was certainly a witcher, but what school he came from without an identifying medallion was a guessing game that could last eons.

"My, my," said the man, the popping smell of buttercups at bloom signalling the man's amusement. "I wasn't expecting you. You'll have to forgive me but I don't have any furniture for you."

Geralt had a feeling he'd be forgiving this man, no matter what he did, with a voice like that.

"No need, I have my own things." Jaded, sparkling amber with flecks of black twinkled up at him, nearly level but off by the slightest inch. Geralt elbowed Lambert into action, deciding his brother had stood frozen long enough. "Is there a room cleared out for me?"

"Of course," Lambert glared at Geralt but trudged off to begin the transfer of his furniture. The man in the doorway watched with a bemused expression. "We're jumping ahead of the wyvern's nest. What's your name?"

"Geralt," he said, offering a hand.

Calluses gripped his calluses. So the witcher wielded swords of some sort - that certainly put a few schools out of the running, namely the Bear (although they all hulked around with double this man's bulk. Geralt hadn't even entertained the thought of this sprite being a Bear). Up close, he also didn't seem to be the kind that would swing two heavy Viking axes.

"Ah," mused the man. "Thought I smelt the stench of Blaviken on you."

He tensed but no further blow came. Guy had either a good nose or already knew who he was. Both options were startling.

"I go by Jaskier." A good, firm shake. Jaskier stepped to the side like he was falling into a well practiced, light footed dance. "Do come in."

Geralt did. The apartment, for all the outside building was, was large and spacious. To the left sat a grey L-shaped couch surrounding a large tv on a glass coffee table, a soft looking rug underneath it all. A large, full-walled window spewed light upon the glass, making it glitter. In front of them was a kitchenette, cut off from half of the lounge area by the glistening white marble counters. In the center sat an island, floating in the middle of countless shelves and utensils. The place smelled clean, as if it was never used. The faint puff of blood emanated from the man behind him and very suddenly Geralt realised that he'd turned his back to Jaskier, who still leaned by the door.

Surprisingly, his instincts said nothing. Something about this - either the apartment or the man with him - felt _right._ If he had spare coin to bet on it, he'd assume it was the grey-white-clean colour scheme the place had. Certainly not the man behind him.

"Your room is at the end of the hall, on the right. Mine is the opposite left." Jaskier motioned to the right wall, where a lone white door stood, golden vines painted over it much like the front door. Geralt would grudgingly admit they were pretty, in a childish sense, even if they did flow with the accuracy of a professional. "First left is the laundry room and opposite that is the bathroom. Hope you don't mind sharing?"

"No," he highly doubted his hours would affect anything here. At the most, he'd be back late, but the man didn't look as if he was too much of a worrier. "This place new?"

"Had it a few years but I supppse you could call it a new build," Geralt ventured down the long hall to see his room whilst Jaskier's voice filtered away. He opened the last door on the right and found a large room, walls painted a light grey.

On the furthest wall sat a large window, grey blinds waving in the light breeze that fluttered around the room from the half-cut window. It smelt like violets and wine, a low musk detailing a recent period of time where the paint had dried. There was nothing in the room, only the wooden planked floor and a bared light bulb.

A flick at the lightswitch by the door revealed that it shone a low orange, like that of a soft dusk. Satisfied the room was large enough, he mapped it out, noting every creak of the floor as he trailed along the walls. There was no bugs to be found, nothing to take offense at. Just as he stood back from his inspection, Lambert appeared at the door, two suitcases clutched in each hand.

"Honestly," grumped his youngest brother. "If I knew you were gonna leave it all to me I would've pointed you in Eskel's direction."

"Have to make you work for it," Geralt said, a few glances shared between them sharing more words than could be spoken in a space being watched over by another. Jaskier had remained in the main part of the apartment but Geralt was not so naive as to think that meant he wasn't listening.

"Set them there," he pointed to a place by the window before turning towards the door. "We'll bring the bedframe in."

"You don't need help with the assembly, do you?" Lambert was more than willing, despite his words, but Geralt knew of his skillset all too well.

"I'll do it myself, later. Just help me bring the stuff in."

"Yes, sir!" A slap on the back of his head wiped the smug grin from Lambert's face pretty quick.

Six hours later, Jaskier appeared at the door. Geralt, who was elbow deep in trying to remember how to reassemble his bedframe (a task which he'd only moved onto after getting the rest of the room ready), didn't notice him until he cleared his throat.

"I need to go out tonight," said the other, drawing Geralt's attention with a crack of his neck. Jaskier seemed to have a thing for lying against doorframes, for he was yet again draped against Geralt's. His eyes seemed to sparkle in the evening gloom. "Hope you're alright with fending for yourself? There's a decent chinese takeout a block east."

Geralt grunted and turned back to twisting a bolt into place. Behind him, Jaskier hummed.

"Alright then, have a nice night."

When Geralt turned around a minute later, he was gone. He didn't come back until eight hours later, in the bleak hours of the morning.

_Click._

Geralt was awake before he even processed the noise, years of camping out in forests full of bandits and being hunted from city to town making him no longer take small noises for granted. Something as simple as a birdsong could wake him from the constant light sleep he only ever seemed to get. Years ago, it had been frustrating but he'd learned to cope with meditation and (more recently) plenty of coffee. In the present, he stopped breathing and scooped a hand under his pillow for the dagger he'd taken to hiding there.

Nothing in his room. The sound was coming from the western direction, which meant either Jaskier was back or there was an unwanted visitor. Although, going on how the sole visitor was panting something fierce, he assumed it was his roommate.

That didn't stop Geralt from getting up.

He rolled to his feet, thankful for his need to sleep in socks when his bare soles didn't stick to the floorboards with sweat. Any noise could alert the other man and Geralt didn't want a fight on the first night of his moving in.

Something clattered when he got into the hallway after edging the door open. It was coming from the laundry room. A soft curse met his ears against the background of Jaskier's calming breaths. The thick waft of blood curled around him, seeming to permeate through the door. Immediately his senses were on edge, the dagger in his hand too small.

The laundry door opened. Geralt stilled as Jaskier stumbled out, long hair swirling around him as he limped out, dressed only in a long mid-thigh tunic. The man hissed at him, back instantly to the opposite wall as he raised his hand in a warning Igni.

"It's me," he grunted, making a show of slipping the dagger into the hem of his sleep pants. The tinge of blood was thicker with the man in front of him, a long red trail visible as it drooled down his right leg. "Are you..."

"'M fine," growled the man - his medallion glinted in the moonlight that seeped past the open laundry room's door, a snake lunging with sharp fangs, a Viper. "I wake you?"

Geralt eyed the blood that was millimeters from running down the witcher's ankle and staining the floor. "You have potions for that?"

"Bloedzuiger got a got hit in with the acid backlash," explained the man, swallowing with narrowed eyes before decreeing him as threatless. Jaskier continued to limp down the hallway, leaving Geralt to trail behind him as the other stumbled into the kitchenette and reached for a top shelving unit. "Would've cleared it were it not for a few ghouls who decided I was a pillow."

Geralt stood in the nook of the doorway as Jaskier tugged out a rugged looking wooden chest, the size of a large book, and thumbed it open. Inside glinted rows of small potion bottles. The Viper grabbed one and downed it. The smell of blood faded in part as the unseen wound stopped bleeding.

"You going to stand there all night?" Snarled the man suddenly, making Geralt jerk. His amber eyes seemed to glow in the dark of the room, pupils wide as they both used their senses to see.

"What can I do?"

"Melitele, I _know_ you're not _that_ young, Wolf. Go get me a face cloth from the cupboard in the bathroom. A dark one."

Faced with the venom of an irate Viper, Geralt hurried to the bathroom, quickly grabbing the first face cloth towel that was dark and soft enough to be rubbed over tender potion-mended skin. He returned to the kitchenette to find Jaskier half slumped into the counter, right leg strewn out as he gulped water down from a clear tumblr. Geralt tried not to stare at how the man's throat bobbed as he drank.

Seeing how Jaskier was in no position to reach the sink from where he'd bent over in the corner, Geralt stepped around the marble-topped island to run the cloth under the tap on the only water setting there was. He rung the cloth out before offering it to Jaskier, who set the glass on the counter and accepted it. The Viper bent over, running the cloth up along his leg, frowning at the small pool of blood that had gathered under his foot. Geralt stepped back from the man as he dragged the cloth up further than he had assent to see. Looking around, he spotted the roll of kitchen roll and grabbed it, spiralling off a few sheets to drop to the floor and push over with a toe.

The other man grunted his thanks, Geralt used to doing so himself enough that he understood perfectly. Jaskier pulled himself onto the counter after quickly moving the kitchen roll over the puddle, reaching over to rinse out the cloth.

"How's your Child Surprise?" Asked the man, silhouette stark against the dull shine of the moon through the window above the sink. Geralt heard his breath catch in his throat for a second.

"What?"

The Viper peered at him, back to rubbing the cloth along his partly congealed blood. "Don't try to shit me, Wolf. Your kid, Fiona."

Ciri was still alive, kept young by the magic that coursed through her veins. Geralt thought back, tried to remember if he'd ever run across a Viper witcher before- of course he hadn't, he'd remember.

"She goes by Ciri," he said, crossing his arms over his chest in the bleak hope he could back out of this conversation. He should've known better than to accept a cheap double-rent with an elven written ad.

The Viper smirked. "So you were the one who spirited the little Princess away? How amusing, and I thought it was the humans telling tales again. Letho'll love this."

Geralt shifted. "How did you know?"

"Ran into you a few centuries back, Wolf. Course you weren't _awake,_ but your farmer boy was. I doubt you claimed her as his Surprise, you get oats or something from him?"

"A farmer?" When he'd met Cirilla after the Fall of Cintra she'd been found by the farmer's wife. He'd taken her with him, something feeling _right_ in his chest as he accepted his destiny to the girl. "Yarga. He did seem more on edge when I woke. What did you say to him?"

"Wolf or not," the vehemence he muttered the word _wolf_ was not a figment of Geralt's imagination. He'd heard of the Viper's hatred of them, spawned right after they'd gotten their keep back from the now long gone Nilfgaard. Not even Vesemir was completely sure why they were so hated. "You're a witcher, and he was dropping you about. Quite the stutterer."

The man he remembered hadn't stuttered too much, although if he'd been face to face with a witcher's ire he was sure he would've been. Most humans became meek under a witcher's glare and Geralt had a feeling this man resembled a certain witcher all too closely to _not_ be him.

"You're the Master Viper, aren't you?"

Jaskier regarded him silently. "Well, that's certainly what my boys'll say if you ask them." Geralt blinked. "What? Did you expect me to be some old recluse who lives in the keep?"

His laugh was sharp as a sickle. "Ah, young ones. Always so optimistic."

"I'm far from young," he protested.

"I'm sure, Wolf," the Master of the Vipers, the Bloodied Snake, Dementor of Nilfgaard, Avenger of Souls, Crusher of a Nation, smiled serenely. "But compared to me, you are but a boy."

Geralt hummed but said nothing else. Jaskier glanced up to the circular clock.

"It's going on two, you want something to eat? Apparently I make a good stir fry."


	2. the shell of a form his innocence shed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Master Ivar Evil-Eye had warned him before he'd taken the final potion. Had leant down, murmured _'I hope you'll survive, boy'._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter jumps around a lot, it's hardly in chronological order so I hope it makes sense to somebody other than me. 
> 
> No apartment scenes, just Jaskier's past. Next chap will be in the present, I promise!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: suicidal thoughts, themes of depression, swearing, blood/injury, suggested PTSD, suggested/implied panic attack, mention of murder/death/killing, mention of the Trials, cruelty, the sacking of Gorthur Gvaed mentioned, threatening behaviour, witchers being messed up, implied arson, Nilfgaardian Army, violence, mention/suggestion of poison/poisoning
> 
> please tell me if I missed any

Jaskier was constantly queasy with the inane need to relax, a low bodied thrum that pleaded for his muscles to untense, for his fingers to stop twitching for his concealed blade. Constantly, he was kept on edge by a headache that begged for him to sleep, a cruel thought that whispered to him while he mediated; _maybe end it here - the fang'll be through your_ ** _throat_** _before you can blink, if only you'd_ ** _push_**.

Life was hard when all one could do was mediate and kill but he'd been living like that for millenia and here he was; sad, broken and lonlier than he'd ever admit. He ached for remembrance, for someone to look him in the eyes for once - someone who wasn't family - and have a decent conversation with them on medieval ways on how to fillet a chicken that, should need be, could also be a human, come a time.

Master Ivar Evil-Eye had warned him before he'd taken the final potion. Had leant down, murmured _'I hope you'll survive, boy'_. Jaskier had known then he was beyond the point of return. The Trials had burnt his nerves anew, ripped them from his body so quick he'd felt nothing and he'd woken changed; a new man that could parry a kikimore's strike without a quiver in his arm, a new monster that could wield his fangs with such ferocity that even the oldest witcher cowered in fear. Jaskier had awoken as something he hadn't been before the damned Trials — he'd awoken _strong._

And strong he had been. He'd powered past the tests that came from his peers, he'd vanquished his enemies, had forged blades from the depths of hell by Gerring's side, helped polish the blade of Maugrim and had, most importantly, earned his Viper medallion. When the Keep had fallen he'd been enraged, had urged his comrades to take arms. Instead of keeling over as the Usurper wanted, they'd fought back, bleeding from tooth to bone marrow. Jaskier had spurred the remaining Vipers to war, and they may have won on fragile ground but they'd gotten off with their lives. More than he could say for the Usurper.

Now, decades — _centuries_ — later, he stood with the mortals and tried to pretend he was one of them. He tried to act like everything was okay as the new technology-loving generations went on, toddled around like untrained children and kicked up fuss wherever they went. When winter came, he retreated home, striding into the guarded ruins that was Gorthur Gvaed, the Viper's stronghold that had withstood time itself by pretending to be nothing more than an old fortress buried deep in the southern mountains. A mountain that, like the other witcher keeps, was impassable by human standards.

With his family, he'd sit and listen as the others played Gwent, silent as they bemoaned how time had changed. The witchers still hid, were still ridiculed but now anyone that hadn't seen one in their lifetime - something very unlikely to happen with the numbers left - had taken to believing them to be nothing more than faerie tales. Now, if one were to speak of witchers, laughter echoed and those who did accept their contracts thought them to be nothing more than profiteers of folk song. It made the others angry; made Jaskier feel sick.

"White gull, brother?" Letho asked.

Jaskier looked up from the cloth he'd been rubbing against his bracers, shining as much as the decade old metal could, and allowed himself to nod. A rope-wired bottle was eased into his hand, his brothers shifting closer in hopes for a story that sometimes came from times like this. Once, Jaskier had been plentiful of words, he'd told stories like they were petals in the breeze; all that had changed after the Keep had fallen those years ago.

Losing Gvaed, for however short a time, had hurt his chest more than he'd admitted. During that time of plotting revenge, scheming upheaval and planning the Usurper's demise, his throat had closed against the stories and given way to tactics. Creative imagination and recounts of hunts in cities they were no longer allowed in had squeezed their souls that bit too much. So he'd stopped doing anything other than preparing for the end of the bastard who'd massacred his brothers and sisters as if they were meat for the slaughter. He'd given up the stories, giving into the dark soulless abyss inside of him and his remaining brothers hadn't mentioned a word. 

Maybe worst of all, Jaskier was still so fucking tired — some nights, some days, some weeks, all he could think of was the murder of the Vipers and that _ached_ , kept him up at night and stole his voice as he pummeled the punching bag in his latest apartment; his latest bid to blend in with the masses who'd forgotten about the trolls under bridges that demanded tolls. Somedays, he was half sure he'd never rested after that final fight for freedom against Nilfgaard. He certainly felt as drained now as he had after the battle.

He glanced around at those eager amber eyes and shook his head. They made no move to argue but the air soured with disappointment. Jaskier uncorked the white gull and took a sip, letting the Viper's specially made poison run down his throat. The nightshade was especially sweet this year.

"I found a selkiemore in a ditch," began Kolgrim and the attention shifted from the floor to him. Jaskier choked back the burn in his chest and let the bile quell in his stomach against the gull. Letho eased down beside him, shoulders bumping reassuringly, and Jaskier tried his hardest to relax among _family_.

"We're finally free," Serrit spluttered on a gasp. The clunk of boots halted, every sound echoing in the Tir's tumultuous depths as the remaining Viper's came upon what was left of their donjon and stopped to bask in the relish of being back.

Jaskier felt his chest swell, something lightening. He didn't feel the heavy weight of the dark on his trachea quite so much, there was no pressure on his chest, pulsing down to wrap around his waist. They were home, landed with their keep once more. Victorious after fighting a war no one had thought they'd win. The sack of books and scrolls lay heavy on his back - the history and future of the Vipers bundled in charmed leather.

"Welcome home," Letho shouted, grin splitting his face in half as he let his fangs drop into their sheathes for the first time in years. Around him, Jaskier's siblings shook with reverence and let their bloodied weapons fall to the cracked stone pathway. Muscle memory was the only thing that stopped his blades from joining the pile.

Before them stood Gorthur Gvaed. She was old, crumbling from the fireballs the Nilfgaardian Army had launched at her battlements. Vines curled around her sides and seedlings had taken root in her cracks, greenery peeking through the gaps in the walls. The wards were long gone, dissipated with the deaths of the mages who'd placed them there. The area stunk of ozone, the scars of too many Quen cast having scarred the once clean stone that was now stained black and brown, large gouges scored into them whispering of the deaths of many a witcher and soldier.

The two brass-hinged wooden doors were gone, the archway of the doorway leading into shadowed corridors. The drawbridge's gate was somewhere in the bottommost caverns of the Tir mountains, metal long stripped away for nothing more than chains and wooden pikes that told stories of centuries. Nilfgaardian armour and weaponry littered the ground within the courtyard, the first thing they seen once they progressed from the thin stone pathway over the dark hollows below. The clutter was soon to be burnt or reused for their own; remnants of the takeover of the Usurper's Army. Jaskier's Viper bretherns' belongings had been long gathered in hushed remembrance. Under the first crooked stone that had been crushed by the Nilfgaardian's pulling down the gate, Jaskier knew there to be a litany of medallions, and not all were Vipers'.

Once, Gvaed had been great. The Vipers had offered shelter to all, from Crane to Cat, so long as they were witcher. For witcher were kin, Ivar had reasoned before his untimely death at the hands of a traitorous Wolf-turned-Nilfgaard spy, the very bastard that had lead the very attack itself. Once, Gvaed had stood strong; now she relied on her children to do so for her. Jaskier stood, shell-shocked almost, in the gateway and surveyed the eyes looking back to him in guidance. Yes, he'd made a pact at Ivar's death, _that_ did not become null now that they were home - if anything, now was when they needed it most, amidst the clean up and recuperation the Vipers so desperately needed.

"Take arms, brothers," he said. "Auckes, Serrit, ensure there are no creatures nesting in the east wings before branching out to the north. Gerring, Ilester, sweep the west and meet them in the northernmost point. Ragnar, Lanir, Kolgrim, take the surrounding battlements and first predator's mile. Meet up in the hall once you've finished."

"Understood, sir," came the chorus, a blur of shadows racing forth to take care of their tasks. Jaskier was left standing in the courtyard, barely half a dozen others with him. The sight made something shiver in his gut, knowing these were the only Vipers left.

"Letho," he called. The bald man's attention riveted to him in an instant. Jaskier knew better than to over-use the man's respect of him. "After dinner take a few down with you to the hollows under the bridge. We need the drawing gate."

Letho nodded. "Consider it done. And what if it's in no condition to be moved?"

"Salvage what you can, the enchantments on it will never be replicated so long as we live. If it's completely gone, I'll take a party out for the necessary supplies."

"Would the stores not have enough to rebuild it?" Asked Pietr.

Jaskier thinned his lips, thinking back to the swarm of black and gold that had engulfed the keep one late autumn night. There had been few true witchers there, only three aside from Master Ivar and the ground keeper, Ocaris. He'd been one of those three, having hiked his way along narrow mountain passes with a badly broken leg after a horrendous horse accident. Unfortunately, it had been well-known that the only witchers on site would be injured ones and the Nilfgaardian Army had been more than prepared. The only reason Jaskier was alive was because Ivar had pushed him into the hollow under the school in a desperate attempt for him to escape with the scrolls - him being the only one left capable of limping away. He'd escaped with the scrolls and half a life, but not before watching the soldiers raid the keep, burning everything from tapestry to spell book.

Unable to muster the words for a response, Jaskier turned on his heel and strode for the great hall. Letho, Pietr and Tarviel followed silently.

In the main corridor, the one that curved around the door and main rooms, Jaskier wormed the loose stone out of the wall and pushed his leather sack inside. With the books safe for the time being, he motioned for the others to keep up and took a sharp left.

The hall, once beautifully decorated in tapestries of all colours, telling stories of the first Vipers to grace these walls, was desolate and dark. An Igni had the remaining stumps of bracket torches burning dully, bringing light that caused the rats lying amongst burnt wood to flee. Where there had been long wooden tables for feasting was now charred sticks and ash. Jaskier's chest hurt, even moreso as he laid eyes upon the old throne at the top step in the head of the room; burnt and hacked down by an untrained hand with an axe. The desecration of his Master's place brought forth a low rumble from his throat, a sound that escaped unstrangled despite how dry his mouth had went.

"Tarviel, Pietr, go inspect the well. See if the water's still good." He could hear the thrum of running water but whether or not that was clean spring water or dirty rain water was two different things. If luck was on their side, the well would be in good enough shape to support them for long enough so that they could source out a larger stream if it was too damaged.

The two men nodded, gone in a flicker. Letho took a circuit around the hall, picking at the scorched stone walls as Jaskier left the room and ventured towards the other rooms. From the west came a mighty roar, reminiscent of that of an elder wyvern. It sounded distressed; idly Jaskier noted his kin were slacking if they'd allowed a beast to notice them with time enough to roar. Now if there were any other beasts in the keep, they knew of their presence. Tedious for the others he'd sent out on purging duty.

Jaskier smelt it before he heard the _inhale, exhale._ He trusted his nose the most of all his senses, the specialised potions of the Vipers allowing for keener senses of the scent tracking. He could follow a scent for days if needed, could smell arsenic from a mile away he'd grown so used to it, although the tinge of nightshade that forever surrounded his fingers would never fade and had resulted in him being mildly nose-blind towards it. Otherwise, he could smell the age-old scent of decay before the rotten door to the kitchens opened even halfway.

He drew his fangs, Viocar and Elsiben, and rapped Viocar's handle against the stone doorway. The breathing quickened, the air tinging with a feral animal's bloodlust. Jaskier hadn't even a foot in the door before the kikimore lunged for him. Elsiben took one of its legs, leaving it to screech loud enough to deafen a whore. In the distance, Letho's heartrate picked up. Jaskier dodged a pincer-leg, swiped under the monster's long appendages and drew Viocar the length of the monster's body. Guts splattered over him, the stench burning his nostrils as he lowered his head minutely to avoid breathing in anything unsavoury. Letho scuttled into the corridor just in time to have the kikimore's head drop in front of him. Jaskier eyed the pile of dead rodents amassed in the corner of the kitchens and sheathed his fangs.

"A kikimore?" His bald, ice-loving companion muttered.

"The lower donjons flooded this spring past," he spat on the beast's head, trying to clear his mouth of the awful taste of muddied, decayed water. "Perhaps it travelled up from the forests. Looks like a scout."

There was no other explanation for it, although from the reek of the kitchens the beast had been lurking here for a lot longer than a mere few seasons. Letho grunted, "That's an awfully long way for a swamp-dweller to walk in the wind."

Jaskier entered the kitchens, content to leave his brother at his back. The kikimore stunk but was easily ignored. He could set Ilester on it later, to stock up on their supplies. "We do not confess to knowing the ways of such dwellers, brother," he soothed. "For all we know it was driven out by a drowner, or something of the like."

Letho huffed a breath that was equivalent to a laugh but said nothing more. Jaskier was pleased, not in much of a conversing mood to begin with. To have the kikimore lurking even after he'd sent his kin out to purge the keep either meant that they'd all taken the right-hand passages or they'd somehow missed it. Both options were displeasing.

He stopped in the center of the large rooms, frowning at the puddle of black water the kiki had left around its slumped body. Knowing the kitchens had the best acoustics in the keep, aside for the main hall, Jaskier nodded to Letho (who wisely stuck his fingers in his ears) and sucked in a large breath.

"I want this keep cleared out before sundown, or else you can hunt for yourselves!" He hollered, the echo of his voice ringing out even a few minutes after his shout. Jaskier sincerely hoped the annoyance he felt had been transferred in his tone. Letho's wince said it had. He liked to think the flutter of the others' heartbeats was testament to their panic.

"What do you say to a friendly competition, brother?" Letho smirked once they'd gathered up the rotting rat bodies and water within a four-walled Quen stack and had burnt the lot with a few strong Ignis. The kitchens were in no state to host dinner, the fireplace soiled by all manners of things, the stone of the floor bleached black where the kikimore had lain. "It's likely the bottom of the mountain still has an abundance of wild boar."

"How many?"

"Five."

"I'll do you six."

Letho squinted at him. "The catch?"

"Loser does the other's job for the day," he suggested.

"Oh, no, I'm not leading these buffoons," chuckled his second. "How about loser does everyone's washing by the stream?"

Jaskier sighed but agreed.

(Jaskier won. He took great amusement in making Letho wash his armour.)

Jaskier peered down at the man, wondering if he should help. He'd perched in a tree a little bit off the main road, far enough off to not be seen by anything less than a witcher's eyes. It just so happened the only witcher he'd come across since the winter that wasn't one of his kin was unconscious. He prepared to lay back against the tree's bark once more but his nose caught a whiff of a familiar poison. Interest piqued, he skimmed the cart-bound witcher's appearance and found his pant leg ripped through, coated in the blue-black goop of a ghoul's bite.

"You are aware your witcher is dying?" He called, nimbly jumping the twenty-or-so foot to the ground from his previous perch. The farmer jerked, dropping the cart's handles and jolting the witcher. Jaskier sneered at him, displeased at the reaction. "Where are you taking him?"

"M-Me home," stuttered the man, unease rippling through the air. The scent of dried wheat permeated Jaskier's nose and made him snarl. The human whimpered and cowered, seemingly unsure of whether or not to continue on his way with or without the witcher. "Me wife c'n help 'im, please- he's claimed the Law o' Surprise."

That made things annoying. Why the witcher had accepted such a thing was beyond the Viper. Ivar had told him more than once to _never_ accept the Law, no matter what. _'Better to take nothing than take the Law of Surprise, boy.'_ The witcher should be thankful he wasn't one of Jaskier's, otherwise he would've been in for an earful. Small mercies, he mused.

"Claimed it or accepted it?"

The man stumbled over his words the same way he stumbled over his feet when Jaskier reached forth to prod at the bite. It wasn't too deep, only enough poison in the graze to elict a few fever dreams. The witcher grumbled quietly under his breath as Jaskier debated the worth of wrapping it in something. He didn't have anything for it, certainly nothing that would help now the poison was in the bloodstream - from the looks of it, the bite was a few hours old. Well, he reasoned if the witcher was alive now he wouldn't be dropping off any time soon.

"He's gettin' it once 'm home, please-"

"Stop begging," Jaskier scowled. The man whimpered. "Where do you live?"

"J-Jus' past the far tree line," responded the man. Jaskier would've responded had the hush of voices not echoed towards him. A woman and a child, introducing as Zofia and Fiona. The downdraft wind carried the scent of chamomile; the scent of destiny's interference. A child surprise awaited the witcher. One of the elder witchers had accidentally claimed a surprise child once and for an early mission Jaskier had been sent to watch over the child to assure they weren't problematic to take into the keep. Until the old Viper'd claimed the boy, he had smelt of only chamomile.

Jaskier sighed down at the fever-flushed witcher and sighed. This was why he didn't interfere with other witchers - they were all so problematic. Not even his Kolgrim, cursed with bad luck, was such a burden.

"Very well, do carry on." The human paled by three shades at his smirk. Jaskier huffed a breath and debated the pros of climbing back up his tree. At least he'd have a good story come winter.

The clinks of the cart being tugged away drew his attention back, although his full attention had never truly been diverted. With the sway of the cart and the human farmer's lopsided pull, the motions freed the witcher's medallion from the roll of his tunic.

A wolf medallion stared back at him, mocking. Jaskier dismissed the possibility of this ever being a story for Gorthur Gvaed. Wolves were not welcome there; talk of them or not. He'd find another story for the youngsters.

(He returned home that winter to whispers of Cintra's fall by assassins and the tales of the Princess being spirited away. _How amusing,_ he thought and mulled over it no more.)

Pietr's form was too stiff, his left fang stretched too far with his right pulled too closely to his body. Jaskier curled his shoulders low, streaking forwards to get a jab in that the boy managed to parry. Impressed and showing so with a grunt, Jaskier pulled Elsiben back before twirling her hilt to butt the boy's chin, knocking his head back. He laughed as the younger witcher stumbled back, the soft early winter breeze calming against his face. From the far corner, watching like most of the other Vipers, Ilester cheered Pietr on despite the losing effort.

He backflipped away from the boy's slashes, offering some advice as he twirled around the courtyard. "Recoil your left a little, Pietr. You're too slow with your right pull up to have your left that far forward-"

A red hot blade of agony pierced his shoulder and Jaskier reacted on instinct, swiping out at the thing that had hurt him. He ended up kneeling over Lanir's chest, pushing down against him as the man's apologies went past his ears unheard. The man's back had hit the ground, his head clattering not far after it. A concussion, most likely. Although that information wouldn't register for a few minutes yet.

His shoulder hurt, smarted like the Nilfgaardian Army had speared him again. The pain was fresh in his mind, the snap of the spear ringing in his ears as he tumbled down the incline along the hollow. He remembered falling as if it was yesterday, Ivar's desperation hurting him more than any spear could as the man who'd been like a father to him had pushed him away to survive.

That face - eyebrows drawn, eyes dull. He'd been resigned to death even as he'd pushed Jaskier down off the steep. Jaskier hadn't thought he'd live to see another dawnbreak, hadn't thought he'd need to now that Ivar was most certainly running headfirst into his own death.

"Jaskier!" Came the shout as hands pulled him back. The world swam around him as his knees locked up, resulting in the hands curling around him to become arms that tried to tug him off the boy. That was all Lanir was, a mere boy, no older than a few centuries - nothing in comparison to Jaskier. He was so like the little boys who'd been training to be Vipers before the Usurper's men had came. Young. _So, so young._

A _nd now they were dead._

_'Protect them!'_ Ivar had screamed at him as Jaskier had fallen into the pitch black where no human could follow. His shouts rung in Jaskier's ears until his head ached and he was screaming along with his old mentor's yowls of pain as the Army had struck him down. He was tumbling out of control, he knew. Lanir had been tugged out from under him but Jaskier's kin still swamped around him - _too much, too many, not enough, so little left-_ his skin burned, tingled under the arms and cotton rubbing against him. His ears rumbled with the crunch of the Nilfgaardian's behemoth fireball catapults being dragged along the bridge, bones and men crunching underneath the huge things. Screams of the trainees soared up into the night, their fear palpable compared to Jaskier's.

But he wasn't afraid now. He was home, safe, his remaining kin were with him for an early winter. He just needed air; needed to stop smelling the citrus thick lemon that curled his stomach and reminded him of that night.

A rushed, cluttered Aard that was inches away from becoming an Igni sent them skidding back, Jaskier free to breathe on his own without hands and faces near him. He breathed in the cool Tir mountain air and watched the stab-through wound matt itself back together once he tugged the iron sword out of his left shoulder. What were the chances the boy could hit him in the same place _they_ had? Regret stirred heavy in the air, coupled with more than a few witchers' hesitance. They were wary of him - as they _should_ be.

"I'm sorry," he managed once his throat reopened. The blood that had splattered to the stone of the training grounds made his stomach lurch, made him uncomfortable as if he was a novice again, training his ass off for Trials that would ravage his body more than any training session would. _The children-_ he stifled a whine.

Lanir spoke from ahead of him, a few meters away. His shirt ruffled as he shook his head enough to make Ragnar scowl at him to be still. "Don't be, Master. It was my fault, I shouldn't have went in whilst you were sparring with Pietr. Please accept my most sincere-"

"Do not be foolish," he snapped, almost brought to amusement at how fast the boy's jaw clicked shut. "That was good. My fault for not paying attention to you."

"Are we done apologising?" Letho snorted. He offered Jaskier a hand he gladly took. "Honestly, you're too much of an idiot sometimes, Master."

"I'm no Master," he argued, a pointless testament for his Vipers only smiled knowingly. He had been the one to stir them the fight, after all. His commitment to the keep was rivaled only by Gerring's - and the other witcher's purpose was only so strong thanks to the smithy they'd built him in the old western stables. Jaskier huffed a stern breath at the lost argument. "Your form needs fixing again, Lanir. You lean forwards too much, too easy for me to push you off balance."

"Oh, so you _were_ taking notes somewhere in between the screaming fit?" Letho snorted.

Jaskier levelled him with a glare that made everyone gawk. "I do believe Lanir enjoys squirrel, Letho. One for each of us. It just so happens you're tonight's hunter."

He wasn't, Letho knew that and glowered. Jaskier offered him a saccharine smile.


	3. we sleep with one eye open, if there's any sleep at night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which lavender makes Jas sneeze and we see some Viper action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back with the bois in the apartment, big yay. introducing an irl viper: gerring of kharkiv who sadly has never been tagged before. maugrim's real too - a blade named after a werewolf gerring slew. stg, I love the lore of this world.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: mentions of death/murder, themes of depression, nightmares, implied/observed PTSD and flashbacks, injury, threatening behaviour, brief anxiety, a witcher contract (so violence and potions and swearing), insensitive topics of banter between physically mentally and emotionally scarred characters,
> 
> If I missed any please tell

The traitor sneered, waves of black and gold lined behind him like trophies. When he spread his arms, he mocked them, as if to say _look at me_. A fireball roared overhead, part of the eastern wall collapsing under the magic. The Quens were failing. The children were dead. The Vipers were losing.

Jaskier's heart sunk and he knew this was it. He'd be gone, nothing more than ash on the breeze soon as the Nilfgaardian Army tumbled over the Viper School and its last few children. He was struck back to when he'd been ignorant, dismissing the accusations that the Vipers were being hunted down.

_Mistletoe reared up, loosing her footing as she slid, a black feathered arrow clean through her eye. Jaskier pushed off her saddle, seconds too late to get away from her tumbling body as she fell. The hard gravel of the ground crunched under him as the three soldiers of black and gold circled round. His vision swayed with his slow pulse, his head thumped with every gasped breath._

_"One less monster," chittered one with a spear as he leaned down and spat in Jaskier's face as he struggled under his mare's dead weight, everything from his waist down tingling with pain. He was sure his right leg was broken, judging from the pain. The soldier raised a long headed spear, the length of it glittering in the sun's fading rays. Jaskier knew what was coming so he closed his eyes and breathed in-_

_The pain was indescribable as it rocked through his chest._

The only thing that had saved him was his slow heart beat meaning he couldn't bleed out. He'd lain there on the road for hours before mustering the strength to pull the weapon free. Dread had filled him, made him anxious at the events and for what was to come; namely, the month's hike back to Gorthur Gvaed.

(Because a broken leg on the Path was as good as a death wish. And it would take two months to heal, so long as he set it right.)

Now, there was less than half of their numbers from last winter. Jaskier had seen the Nilfgaardian's plot by his own eyes, had stared the soldiers in the eye as they'd laughed and mocked him, crushed under his horse. The Nilfgaardians had been culling them, and now they were taking their keep.

The spear they'd ran him through with would forever haunt him it seemed, even in his last moments as the Army surged forth on his position. Most of the children were dead, Ocaris had long bled out. Just him and Master Ivar left.

Two witchers against an army.

Familiar callused hands pushed a sack into his hands, a panicked, pained face stared into his, eyes dull like death. Jaskier shouted as Ivar pushed him off the bridge, into the hollow darkness where no witcher nor human could follow.

 _"_ _Protect them!"_ Ivar had screamed, throwing his final fang, Elsiben, down with him. Jaskier caught sight of flames as the old man picked up the spear he'd tugged from Jaskier's own shoulder not minutes before and ran headlong into the surge of death.

_Protect them protect them protect them_

Jaskier burst upright in his bed, panting as the thin blanket fluttered to his waist. He'd soaked it through with sweat again - nothing surprising with the frequency of his memory resurgals. Because that was what he was seeing; memories. He was reliving his Father-Mentor-Friend's death every hour of every day, and had been since that dreaded autumn night.

Never had he seen a reprieve of them since that date, centuries ago. Not even winning back Gorthur Gvaed had done him any good; the loss of so many Viper lives too heavy on his soul as he clutched Ivar's precious Elsiben tight and polished her sparkling. She'd long broken, shattered in his hands during a fight like a piece of his soul. The dear fang lay cradled in a box in his floorboards now, too much a treasure to place away from his person yet, all the same, too important to leave at Gvaed.

The watch he kept under his pillow ticked away, even as he manhandled it out from the pillowcase's confines. 6.52 it read: ante meridiem. Good, that meant he'd gotten a few hours since he'd retired after eating stir fry with the Wolf. A few hours was better than nothing.

Sweltering in his own sweat was not something Jaskier was overly fond of, and he still reeked of that Bloedzuiger acid, so he sprung to his feet, blanket tugged in tow. Pushing into the laundry room first, the blanket made its way into the washer alongside his boxer briefs and his armour (which he'd grievously forgotten about in his earlier rush). All items were black so he didn't worry for stain-giving, instead wasting no time in clicking the machine on and leaving it to power a cycle as he slipped the door shut behind himself.

Already stripped bare, he stepped into the bathroom, rushing through a quick shower. Geralt had left his toothbrush here, alongside a relatively bland smelling bar of lavender. It was probably bland to the Wolf, at least. To Jaskier it was the strongest thing in the bathroom past the scent of warm water and he'd sneezed thrice by the time he'd rubbed an apple-scented lather for his hair.

Shower finished, he rubbed the towel carefully around his medallion - it was _never_ taken off, he was too paranoid for that - before tieing it around his waist. The washer would take just short of an hour on its quick spin so he padded into the kitchenette for an early breakfast.

Geralt was mediating on the couch, the tv a low thrum that Jaskier hadn't heard over his sneezing and earlier delirium. Amused, he ignored him and rooted through the fridge for something. There was cooked ham in strips and a plastic box of the leftover Chinese takeout he'd had a few nights ago. Otherwise, the fridge was eerily bare.

He pulled out a few slices of the ham and held them with his fingertips whilst he wiggled a slice of bread out of the bag the pre-cut loaf was in, buried inside the bread bin. Satisfied with the size of his procured piece, he slapped the ham on it and munched away as quietly as he could, ever aware of how jumpy one got if their meditation was disturbed.

On the counter, attached to the socket by its charger, his phone lit up. Frowning at it, he spared the still form on the couch a look before narrowly avoiding stubbing his toe on the island in his hurry to reach it. The background of Letho grinning up at the camera, canines sharp and threatening, was a sight for sore eyes. Thinking on him, he hadn't seen him in far too long. It felt like winter was years ago, not just a few months.

It was only March and he already felt homesick - how depreciating. Maybe this was why his boys had begged him to enter the modern world a few years back; to make him miss them even more (certainly not because he'd taken to moping around the keep). They were masochists, the lot of them.

Jaskier spared a fond moment for the little boy who'd growled and hissed but had became such a wonderful witcher; a true brother. The reminder that there was a notification forced him to plummet from his atmosphere.

Worry boiled in him as he pulled down the tab because _no one_ texted him - or called him - unless there was an emergency. Jaskier didn't like emergencies because they usually meant he had to take evasive action. The last time there'd been an emergency he'd had to go bail Kolgrim out of jail in some village called White Orchard.

That had been one hell of a shitshow; as a result, Kolgrim was now banned from at least six villages and most certainly half the Continent's taverns. Or bars, as they now called them.

The white tab slipped down the screen to display a number he only ever seen when the keep's stores were running low. Gerring had taken to living there, both in part to ensure nothing unwanted moved in and, in part, due to his age and his dismay for the Path. Jaskier, as Master Viper, had seen no problem with letting the man remain at the keep as it had ensured one brothers life and that the keep would be livable come winter.

Plus, it was hard to find a good smithy.

Jaskier tapped in his code, intent on reading the message and not a notification that he'd received one. A few years ago, when mobiles had came into fruition and made it clear they were the future, all of his Vipers had received one as their winter homecoming gift. They hadn't been pleased but getting one early had put them ahead of the curve and now all of his boys could use the little devices - even if to different extents.

_u_ _p for hunt ? necrophages at home ._

Jaskier spared a moment to tut at the man's punctuation before rolling his shoulders. Chomping down the rest of his bread, he wiped his hands on his towel and typed out a quick reply.

_What time?_

There was no immediate response, and he didn't expect one, so Jaskier let the phone settle back on the countertop. Geralt was still peacefully mediating, the tv having moved on to broadcasting some sort of advertisement for tampons which made him smirk. Through the far wall-side window, the sun peaked past the clouds, a new sunrise popping up to say hello. The light cast the Wolf in an odd light, his hair almost a dull orange as Jaskier's eyes adapted to the splintered light beams radiating off the sided vase on the coffee table. With miniature rainbows colouring the room, he strode back into the hallway.

After quickly discarding his towel in the washing bucket, brushing his teeth (and sneezing yet again at the Melitele-damned lavender) and pulling on a long tunic, he emerged back into the lounge. Geralt stared at him as he re-entered.

Jaskier offered a nod and got one in response. He remembered the fridge. "You free today?"

Geralt nodded, remaining where he was as he skipped through the tv channels.

"I'll leave money and you can go shopping," he said, affirmed by the man's silence that he wasn't protesting. Those golden eyes bored into him. "Don't get too much dairy food- actually, nevermind. Get whatever you like."

The Wolf grunted. "What do you like?"

"Peaches," he said. "Fresh stuff that'll last. Soup?"

"Provisions," Geralt raised an eyebrow. Jaskier felt as if he was being judged.

"Better to get things that last than things that don't," he defended.

Faced with a shrugging Geralt, Jaskier decided this was a battle he didn't want to fight and was distracted by his phone lighting up once again. The light drew Geralt's gaze and the Wolf's eyes followed him as he unlocked his phone and skimmed the message.

_soon as possible . you need more potions ?_

Jaskier replied: _Much obliged. I'll be there soon._

He looked up to the Wolf watching him. "I've got something to do, I trust you can make your way to the shops whilst I'm gone?"

"I'd hope so," Geralt snarked. Jaskier chuffed a laugh that he stifled at the last second. "Where are you going?"

He turned on his heel, phone resting once more on the counter since it couldn't seem to keep charge for more than a minute without its socket. He needed a few potions but a shuffle through his potions box revealed he really did need to take Gerring up on his offer to restock. Thankfully there was a Black Blood (his last one) and a Tawny Owl. A lone Cat was nestled in the corner but other than that he had nothing; certainly no healing ones. He'd used his final Kiss last night, taking the White Honey shortly before climbing through his window.

Gerring would have a field day brewing him an entire collections' worth.

Jaskier plucked the two useful potions out of his box before replacing the charmed beauty back on its shelf. He found no reason to evade the question so answered truthfully. "The keep. There's a few necrophages to deal with."

"Gorthur Gvaed?" Geralt looked surprised. "Isn't it in the Tiran mountains? How are you getting there?"

He blinked at the boy. "My medallion," he explained, brandishing the viper with two charmed red gems for eyes. "Us Vipers got bored of climbing up a mountain only to go down it again, so we charmed our medallions to open a portal there." And other set places, like Jaskier's flat, but Geralt didn't need to know that.

Geralt appraised the medallion with keen eyes. Just as Jaskier thought he was going to comment on the ingenuity of it, the Wolf turned his attention from him to the tv with a hum. Astounded by the absurdity of the witcher before him, Jaskier went to go pull his armour out of the washer as it beeped.

Gorthur Gvaed greeted him like an old friend when he portaled there. The lengthy, gleaming tapestries he'd spent years recreating from memory hung proudly on the stone hallways, murmuring for him as he passed them. Gvaed had not always felt this safe, once he'd been in awe of her towering stone walls more than any tangible thought, but that had been hundreds of years ago, before he'd found something to protect in Letho's young eyes and seen a father in Ivar's long grey beard.

Gerring of Kharkiv stood in the parlour, waiting. He smelt of steam and molten iron, and a few older, calming scents. Although, currently to Jaskier anything was better than the boy's damned lavender.

"Been out in the gardens again?" Was Jaskier's greeting for his brother. "I can tell the oleanders are doing well."

"They're blooming extremely well this year, " Gerring turned from the burning fire and nearly crushed him in a hug - nothing like the strength of Letho's but still enough to make him breathless. "Have you heard of how many mortals' dogs are eating them? Truly shocking."

"Most certainly," he agreed for lack of a better alternative. "A tragedy."

"Like losing a good potion to a boy's foolish mistake."

Jaskier murmured an agreement, not too sure who the man was taking a jab at and decided to change the topic. "The necrophages?"

"Ah," smiled the man. "Yes, they've nested at the foot of the mountains, in the forest. I went down there to collect some wood for the stores and found over a hundred rising from the soil."

Jaskier knew it wouldn't be easy. Nothing ever was.

"I have one Tawny Owl and a Black Blood, should it come to it." He announced. "Will you be joining me, brother?"

"Of course I will. They seemed to be very bitey so I'd suggest the Blood." Gerring looked at him knowingly. "I take it you need a full stock up?"

Jaskier didn't blink. Gerring laughed, clapping him on the shoulder as he headed out of the room. "Come, let me get my armour on and we'll head down."

The man took just short of a quarter of an hour to put on his armour, impressive considering it likely hadn't been put on, or used, in the five decades since he'd taken up residence within Gvaed permanently. Jaskier aided with the bulky leather, wood-treated chest piece Gerring preferred over Jaskier's own lighter (and washing-machine friendly, courtesy of Tarviel) kevlar-mesh one. When his fellow Viper had deemed himself suitable for the task of a purging, he plucked a familiar bottle from the racks and they set off.

Climbing down the mountain would never be hard for Jaskier after the struggle to get back up after the sacking but the same could not be said for Gerring. Patiently, Jaskier sat upon a century-old boulder at the base to let Gerring catch his breath, the other man leaning against said boulder.

"You must like the current apartment more than the last, seeing how you still haven't moved." Gerring's attempt at smalltalk was received with bemusement. Jaskier decided to indulge his brother as he twirled Viocar in his hand. The other man nodded his confirmation, saying he was ready.

Jovially, Jaskier jumped off his boulder, wading into the dark recesses of the forest that kept humans far away from the Tir. In the past three centuries only five mortals had dared enter, and a Viper had only been graced to find a living one once.

"I got a roommate."

Viocar and Celbrem were primed and ready to face the blight; Maugrim hefty in Gerring's hand. The land rippled menacingly underboot as they trudged under the thick canopy of trees. As much as the forest was swampland, there was a fair amount of vegetation to trick even the most rapt passerby. Kikimore enjoyed lurking in the deeper parts, but they were too shallow here, too close to the stone of the mountains for anything other than small wildlife and the apparent ghoul infestation.

"Is that so? What made you change your mind? Last I checked you hated the mortals nearly as much as Serrit hates corn."

The first ghoul clawed its way up from the undergrowth like a zombie would in those recent generation-loved movies. Its snarls filled the air and soon its brethern were joining the first, hundreds gathering in a matter of moments. Jaskier uncorked his Black Blood and toasted with Gerring's own bottle. It burned on the way down.

"I'd never made my mind, boy."

His fellow Viper clicked a laugh as they sprung into action, blood and guts instantly flying in the face of two witcher's blades. The ghouls hollered and put up a good fight but their efforts paled in comparison to two territorial Vipers. "Don't _boy_ me, I'm older than you by six decades!"

Jaskier dodged a stray arm, pirouetteting to let Viocar cut the necrophage in half. Cold blood splattered across his face, taking a quick fluttering of his eyes to ensure none blinded him. "Certainly don't look it."

"Oh," huffed Gerring, cutting down three as they were swamped by all sides. The howls of the ghouls ricocheted through Jaskier's Black Blood-addled head, the sounds ten times louder than the usual deafening screech thanks to his headache. Gerring seemed to be fairing better but he was used to having keener ears than most the Vipers, better at duling the senses; relying more on his hearing and his unusually sharp eyes. Jaskier, burdened with an ungodly sense of smell, was forced to swallow after a whiff of the ghouls. "Such the charmer; even of men."

"I have no preference," he intoned, swapping the hands he held Viocar and Celbrem in. He was beginning to tire under the onslaught, his metabolism chewing through his potion quicker than it should be as he strained.

Had Jaskier done this alone he'd likely have died, or at least been chomped up before he could get a handle on the necrophages.

"Of course. Still hunting, though?" The older man twisted behind a drooling maw and pierced the ghoul with Maugrim, the mighty blade making quick work of the creatures' head as what was left of a brain flew back in the direction of Maugrim's pull. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier seen him agily take down a further six with a single cry.

"You could've done this alone." True; Jaskier was struggling more than the older man. Although, perhaps that was because the ghouls seemed to enjoy lunging for him more than for Gerring. Fresher blood, he supposed. "Nor was I ever hunting."

"Probably could've," mused the man cockily. "But what makes you say that? Not searching for _the_ one? Must be because grumpy old men like us don't deserve nice things." An Aard pushed the creatures back when they swarmed too close. Jaskier was finding it hard to believe this pack had newly strolled into the forest. By sheer numbers alone, it looked like they'd been nesting here for decades.

They were lucky none of their own had been caught out whilst travelling up to Gorthur Gvaed. (Both the Vipers _and_ the ghouls, for had the creatures have killed one of Jaskier's kin they would've been _pulverized_.) It was a looming possibility, as a few boys had taken to appreciate the challenge of climbing the mountain and portaled instead into the dead center of the forest. Boys like Auckes and Serrit, who preferred racing to the keep over timely arrivals.

"Love is farfetched."

"You weren't saying that when you were five."

"Point in case: I was five."

Gerring laughed, slaying three ghouls in one strike. Jaskier pitied the beast to fall by his hand. Maugrim had a hell of a bite.

"So, what of the roommate? Surely not a human - they'll assuredly vandalize the place whilst your gone, you do realise?"

"No. A witcher."

The other's tone turned giddy. "Indeed?"

"A Wolf."

Gerring hesitated, blade wavering just enough inches left to splatter even more guts over them both. Jaskier scowled as he wiped a dollop of black goo from his face before pouncing on his own herd of ghouls. There had to be still fifty left, the masses bumbling around them in droves.

"That's a large step forward," he heard under the _zz_ _zing_ of Viocar taking the heads of two and Celbrem gutting a third and fourth.

His eyes pulsed. The Black Blood was wearing off. How long had they been at it? At this rate he'd need to drown one of Gerring's White Raffard's Decoctions. Two hours of sleep was usually more than enough to get him by, what was so different now?

"He needed somewhere to stay."

There was no response for a moment, nothing aside from grunts and squeals. The forest danced in the music of decapitated heads plunking to the ground, the leaves shivered in the wake of two witchers and even the soil sprung up to greet them. The flow of ghouls was slowing; they were reaching the end of the crop. "Anyone I'd know?"

A ghoul caught him, biting down on his arm hard at the elbow. The armour was thinner there and it drew blood, Jaskier only spared it the time to kick the necrophage away as it convulsed and dropped dead thanks to the Blood. He hissed, taking the arms of a further three as Gerring followed up with decapitations. "The Butcher of Blaviken."

"Damn." They met back to back as the final few ghouls tried to circle. Jaskier jumped high as Gerring dropped low. Two beautifully timed Aards had the ghouls screeching and skittering back. "You have all the luck, Master."

"That's Kolgrim."

Gerring dropped Maugrim into the last ghoul's head, laughing mightily as Jaskier pulled free a cloth from his belt to wipe down his fangs. He sheathed them, looking up to see what had the other man cackling quite so hard (because he knew he wasn't that funny). The ghoul slumped on his blade was coated in acid, stomach ripped out.

A bloedzuiger's acid permeated the air. Displeased, Jaskier frowned. Gerring pulled Maugrim free.

"Knew it, thought I fucking smelt one," exclaimed the man. "A damned blood leecher down here? What in the hells did we do to deserve this?"

"We existed?" Jaskier suggested, as that had been reason enough for the Usurper. "I admit, I thought the smell was me."

"As did I," Gerring smirked, receiving a glare. "However, this says otherwise."

"Foolish of it to try out on a ghoul," he mentioned. "Perhaps there was a territory dispute?"

"You say that as if they have minds."

Jaskier snickered. "Well, they must have some speck of intelligence to be able to survive, be it instinct or not."

"And yet some humans are so fucking dumb they can't tell a dog from a cat," Gerring raised an eyebrow. Maugrim remained out as they both strained their ears for any sound of a bloedzuiger. The beasts were nasty things, with their forearm spikes and large, fanged mouths. And, surprisingly enough, they could sneak up on a witcher without much effort despite their bulk and other opposing factors that very much suggested they would make for bad stalkers. Jaskier had a particularly strong dislike for them currently, after last night's _accident_.

"As if you could the first time you seen one." A branch snapped about a mile off and Jaskier realised how far he'd stretched and pulled his range back, releasing the death grip he'd taken upon his fangs' hilts. "I do believe we're in the clear."

"Seems so," agreed Gerring, apparently having chosen to ignore that final jab. "It was good seeing you, Master."

Jaskier rocked forward with the clap to his back - always on his right shoulder, never his left; his boys weren't _that_ foolish - and nodded. "You as well. Shall I inform Letho he's to bring the archespores this year?"

"It would be appreciated," chuckled Gerring. "How about you sample my latest stew before heading off? I could get you something for that chip in Viocar's hilt while you wash up."

Relief flooded him. "That would be nice, Gerring. So long as you've no dairy in your latest concoction."

"Finally narrowed it down to you being lactose intolerant and not my cooking, then? About time."

"Careful," he side-eyed the Viper as he sheathed Maugrim, a soft grin pulling at his lips. "Your ramblings may just make me forget my discovery."

His brother chuckled. "May Melitele pray otherwise, brother mine."


	4. if you wanna win, blood is gonna spill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt goes shopping (and gets carried away). Letho has an eventful encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: possible very slight implied inner homophobia, Geralt being too gay for his own good, being awkward/anxious, definite swearing, Geralt thinking sexually, brief makeup bashing, 
> 
> (For second half w/out Geralt): unsafe living conditions, ABLEST SLURS used in banter, scarred witchers (emotional physical and mentally), violence, blood, severe injury, swearing, hallucinations, Stregobor, threatening behaviour, 
> 
> If I missed any please inform me x

Geralt stared at the tv screen for a while after Jaskier had left with a call of _"Medallion: Home."_

Firstly, he was shocked that Jaskier had even asked him to go shopping; secondly, the amount of money he'd left made Geralt wonder just how much food the other man wanted; thirdly, Geralt hadn't ever been shopping aside for buying furniture (which Eskel had accompanied him for). To put it short - Geralt had no clue what to do.

He'd stood in the kitchenette for a little too long, glaring down at the stack of twenties like they'd cough up the answers he needed. Geralt had glared for five minutes and they hadn't said anything. He didn't think twenty-first century money could speak. Not that money spoke before.

Grunting, Geralt shrugged on some shirt Ciri had gifted him at winter solstice and slipped on his boots. He triple checked his laces before tucking them in - old habits died hard, especially habits that had kept him alive for centuries - before shoving the money into his back pocket. He locked the door behind him and slipped the key into the niche of his boots.

The store Jaskier had mentioned was large enough for a city like Qvinin. Like the apartment block it was dull and grey, an exact mirror of the entire city somehow. It was spacious though, and stocked up with more food than Geralt knew what to do with.

Faced with aisles of food in large showcase fridges, Geralt realised he really didn't have a wide repertoire of knowledge for cooking ingredients. Or for buying food in general. So he did the next best thing-

_"What's up, Geralt?"_

He called Ciri.

Standing in the middle of an aisle, loud people bustling around him, a child wailing two aisles over, the _click-clack_ of an elderly man's walking cane two hundred feet to the left of him, a young couple arguing over which cactus to buy, Geralt took a deep breath and spoke.

"What do people eat?"

_Fuck_.

For her credit, Ciri only paused for a moment. In the silence, the noises around him seemed to get a thousand times louder. Then, she finally spoke.

_"So, you trying to serenade your roommate already or did you have an existential crisis?"_

He pulled the phone away from his mouth and sighed loudly. A middle aged woman gave him a disdainful look, picking up a cabbage as she hurried past him.

"No," he grunted, standing awkwardly in the middle of the aisle, watching people scurry past.

_"To both or the first?"_

"Both." He scanned the rows of fruits and vegetables again. Jaskier had said he wanted peaches but there weren't any on this aisle and he felt a certain amount of necessity to get _something_ from here. "What's good to keep in a fridge?"

_"Okay, um. Vegetables? Fruit? What did they say they liked - did you even_ **_ask_ ** _?"_

"He likes peaches," Geralt growled, shopping basket feeling like nothing in his grip. "But I can't find any."

Ciri snorted then made a ruffling noise as if the hide the fact that she had. She was probably preparing for a meeting or something - part of ruling Cintra was the meetings that Ciri, as the Queen, had to attend. It was almost funny how she'd been Queen for _centuries_ and no one had realised (part of her magic, he supposed). _"Was that an innuendo?"_

"No." Geralt debated Jaskier's reaction if he were to come back to an empty fridge and a suggestion of takeout. The thought put a curl of resentment into his stomach so he cut his ties there and moved on, physically trudging forward to pick up a plastic package of red grapes. The due date was for a week.

Ciri was still hooked on the alleged innuendo that Geralt was sure Jaskier hadn't meant as one. _"Did he say he liked your peaches or peaches in general 'cuz Geralt, that's good going for what- a few days? How long you been moved in?"_

"This is the second day," he answered, forcing his arm to drop the package of grapes into his basket. Suddenly, it felt like he was being weighed down by a cement wall. He cut his Child Surprise's rant off before it really started, "Ciri, what should I buy?"

_"Go for the simple stuff,"_ she suggested. _"W_ _hat's not in the fridge?"_

"There's nothing in the fridge," Geralt said, accidentally cutting off a trolley as he strode over to a packet of peppers. The man behind the red handled monstrosity huffed at him and would've rammed into him in his irritation were it not for a hasty glare on Geralt's part. The human backed off like a scared dog with its tail between its legs.

_"Great. Get milk then, yoghurts, ham, cheese."_

The peppers were covered in a plastic bag. Why was everything covered in plastic? Didn't the humans know how bad it was for everything? He put them into the basket anyway.

"He said no dairy."

_"Oh,"_ stopped Ciri, momentarily put off. _"Is he lactose intolerant? Get milk for you then, I know how much cereal you eat."_

"That's Lambert," he argued but it didn't change the fact that _yes,_ he did like eating cereal. Especially when he shouldn't - at say, midnight.

_"Sure, big man. All Lambert, that is."_ Ciri played along. _"Get fruits, maybe some ready-made meals if you're that desperate. You can get stuff for the cupboards too, like cake or pasta - stuff like that."_

Geralt frowned, surreptitiously eyeing the trolley guy from earlier as he reached over beside him and picked up a bag of iceberg lettuce. When he'd turned away, Geralt grabbed a bag of it too, deeming the best before date acceptable as it fell into his basket.

_"You could make tacos,"_ suggested Ciri. _"The ones you make are really good-- oh, sorry, Geralt. Gotta go, text me how it goes, yeah? Love you."_

Ciri hung up on him. Geralt snarled at the shelves like it was their fault.

He managed to pull himself out of the fruit and veg aisle when a loud toddler waddled onto the scene with a flustered mother. The next aisle was for meats. The shop had a good selection so Geralt picked up some chicken drumsticks - something that could be rustled up quickly - and a package of sliced ham, like the one he'd seen sitting beside the takeout box in the fridge.

Getting things Jaskier already liked seemed like a good idea so he grabbed a few cans of soup when he passed by them. He could maybe buy some liquor - he certainly had enough money - but Geralt decided that a six pack of beers was good enough. The six pack of gatorade he added was merely because they were on cheap. Not because Lambert always moaned he had none when he swooped around (which he inevitably would).

Ten minutes later, he'd gathered a few cereal boxes - including alpen, oats for porridge and some chocolate cookie cereal that was on cheap - and had amassed a range of nearly everything from peanut butter, coolaid and fresh baguettes. Geralt was halfway across the _very_ large store when a bright display of colour caught his eye.

Jelly.

A tug in his heart pulled him towards the amber-coloured one, seeing it was a special edition honey flavoured stack. He went to turn away, because who was paying _that_ much for a pack of six, but the tug in his chest turned into an ache and his hand reached out of its own violation.

He ended up buying not just the honey special edition but the normal strawberry pack as well. Geralt reasoned that Ciri would probably appear to eat them if all went wrong and neither he or Jaskier liked them. He'd never had jelly before.

Remarking mentally that this store had nearly everything, Geralt placed a pack of tortilla wraps into his nearly overflowing basket and marched towards the checkouts.

A bored looking teenager stared up at him, gaudy makeup brighter than anything in the entire city. It almost seemed out of place somewhere so dull but then Geralt really looked at her and realised she'd layered that sparkly concealer stuff all over her nose. She looked just shy of becoming a reincarnate of Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer - that character all the kids nowadays liked.

She didn't speak to him so he didn't speak to her. He was sure her popping her chewing gum at him wasn't a hello either.

Not five minutes later the store was freeing him, two store-bought plastic bags clutched in his hand. The sky rumbled above him, the heavy tinge to it that suggested it would be raining soon, if not tomorrow. But for now, the sun shone down on him, blindingly. He squinted to avoid damage to his eyes, and stifled the curse that came from him staring right into a very reflective puddle.

He'd only walked a few blocks to the store and he figured he had time to kill, as nothing he'd bought needed immediate cooling. Yennefer must've rubbed off on him because he found himself inside a clothes store before he knew it, gazing desolately at the racks of too small shirts.

The clothing store was practically empty, a soft tune whistling over the radio in the checkout corner. It seemed as if he was navigating a maze of clothing racks, the sectors segregated by gender with the feminine things to the left and the masculine to the right.

With wonder, Geralt peered around the male racks, unsure of why he'd entered the store. He was on the border between female and male clothing when he realised why.

There was a dress, a long black beautiful thing that was long enough to kiss the ground and cup the frame of whoever wore it. He'd seen it in the window display and had subconsciously entered to shop to find it. Geralt blinked at it, suddenly seeing Jaskier standing in it, leaning against the countertop, panting. The straps would stand askew off his shoulders, Geralt's hand wandering lower and lower and making those gorgeous amber eyes thicken because of _him._

His gut curled in pleasure and Geralt broke away from the sight as an assistant appeared beside the dress. The woman looked none too pleased, arms folded under her breasts - breasts that paled in comparison to Yennefer's, was his first irate thought.

"Can I help you?" The sales assistant raised her prim eyebrow, her clotted green eyeshadow an ugly contrast to her dull eyes.

Geralt said nothing as he turned around and left the store. He needed to get back to the apartment before something went off- maybe needed to sit down and let his over-eager lower extremities calm down before he chaffed himself on his jeans.

A two storey house, tall and drooping. Boarded windows and cracked walls. He stared up at it and sighed. Horror movie material, it was.

The gravel drive was unkempt and obviously kneeling to the whims of nature. Weeds, long dandelions and choppy grass that was a myriad of colours stood, glowering at him as he jumped the rusted metal gate that was barely a meter wide and trudged up the hill. Letho kept his eyes on the prize, stalking up to the rickety old door.

Locals said this place was haunted, reporting sightings of yellow eyes and man-sized shadows that disappeared into thin air. It was said the house was cursed by the long dead past owner and all who entered came back different, changed, cursed. Privately, Letho wondered if Tarviel could've hunkered down in a town any more superstitious.

The door gave easily, groaning on aged hinges. A waft of the inside dust swirled up to meet him, smelling worse than that _'fine wine'_ Ilester had brought back to the keep one year. The thing had smelt like horseshit; this house perched upon the hill smelt like death.

A whisper of metal echoed from above him and Letho stopped at the cool fang's tap to his neck. He looked up, snorting at how Tarviel had contorted himself to fit his lanky frame in the small space along the chandelier's chain and the roof. It wasn't everyday one saw a Viper hanging from the literal rafters.

"Never learned to knock, brother," Tar rolled his eyes, twisting and curling so he was on his feet opposite Letho in a second. His fang, Cluthav, joined his other, Marishmel, in their joint sheath and he clapped Letho on the back, pulling him into a grand hug no one dared pull on Jaskier least they lose their arms.

"You know me; unruly as the day I was born." Letho cast his gaze around, noting rotten walls that stunk of mildew and a soggy carpet that was suspiciously radiating a faint odour of bleach. The house was infested with black mold on the upper floor, a few bats making themselves known in the attic.

Tarviel had, simultaneously, the best and _worst_ taste of them all.

"What brings you to my neck of the woods, dear Second?" Tar tilted his head, leading him down the ancient corridor into the kitchen. Crossing the boundary of the threshold was like taking a breath of fresh air upon Gorthur Gvaed's battlements as the wards washed over him. Good, at least his brother wasn't sleeping with the stench of black mold at his back.

He was hustled into a tweed chair in the small room, overseeing a wild garden with a great pond through shaded glass veranda doors.

"Didn't expect to find you here, I'll admit. You gave me quite the hunt." Letho said.

With a grin Tarviel sat on the counter and stared down at him, dark kevlar a good look on him. "Master'll be pleased some of his training stuck. Let's cut the formalities, Letho - what do you want?"

He looked out the doors, watching a bird twitter in the tree at the back of the garden. For all the house was at the top of the hill, the garden seemed to naturally climb for all the height of the land so that it looked flat and level. Although, that could've been Tar's doing - he always had been infatuated with the glamour-kind magics.

"You know what I'm here for," he smirked.

His brother's stare was blank aside from curiosity. "I'm afraid I don't. Has something happened?"

"What?" Letho's stomach sunk. The tweed chair he'd sat on felt cold under his armour. Outside, the sun seemed to dim.

The birds in the tree shrieked and flew off. Letho was on his feet in an instant, Tarviel not a second behind.

"Not a gossip call then?" His brother growled, fangs in his hands. Magic flushed through the house, alien to Letho's keen senses.

Someone was with them.

"Got a message through our system," Letho hissed, referring to their old _leave a note_ _on the table_ forum. "It was from you?"

"No," frowned Tarviel.

The door to the kitchen flew open, clanging off the wall as the house shook. A thick churn of magic permeated the air, making Letho's nose scrunch up. His inner snake hissed; he vocalised his displeasure as his fangs flipped into his hands.

Beside him, Tarviel readied an Aard.

"Your little Signs will do nothing to me," laughed a voice, disembodied and startling. Its echo seemed to ricochet around them, bouncing off the walls and spearing straight through Letho's head. "But I suppose you could try."

"Who's there?" Tarviel shouted, fangs clutched loosely as he kept his crouch. Letho took a deep breath and smelt spearmints and cloves. The thick waft of magic carried hand in hand by those scents suggested their visitor was a sorcerer. The shadows of the hallways curled like a wave, shimmering and shaking as a hurricane would on a rampage. It looked like a sea of black.

His throat rumbled with a growl.

"Now, now," whispered the voice; male and arrogant. "Don't be getting your pretty little scales all scratched up, my Vipers. The pay is too good for a few unharmed ones."

A bounty hunter, perhaps? But Letho knew for a fact there hadn't been a price on a single Vipers' head since the sacking - and even then, they'd been dismissed after they'd reclaimed Gorthur Gvaed.

"I'm not bounty hunter, nor am I here to kill either of you." A man strode into the doorway from the shadows of the hall. In the same room as him, the magic around him was thicker than anything Letho'd smelt before. It cloyed his nose. Tarviel hissed lowly and showed that he was facing the same problem.

"In fact," the man would pass for a fifty year old mortal, with a long greying beard to his ass, bushy eyebrows, gleaming dark blue eyes and too-white teeth curled up in half a sneer and half a grin. His long white robes that turned a pale cream after his hips were flushed out with magic, his presence staunch and looming. He tilted his head in a startling impression of Jaskier when he was drunk and playful then narrowed his eyes like Ragnar did when one of them got hurt and had to flop towards his area. Had he been watching them?

_Fuck._ This guy was dangerous.

"I'm simply here to send a message."

"A message?" Letho didn't believe it for a second. He pulled his mental barriers up high, beleatedly realising he should've done that immediately. "Of what kind?"

The man thinned his chapped lips. "Hmm. Not the kind you believe, little Tarviel."

Letho shouted a growl and charged towards the man, Joluneer reaching for the bastard's shoulder. Tarviel joined him, diving low for the mage's legs. The stranger simply waved his hand and a gust of air pushed them both back.

In a flurry of light, Letho burst through the thin kitchen walls, tumbling into the garden. The tree was shaking, the fence quivering like a scared animal. Eerie silence surrounded the habitat. His back ached where he'd fallen on a root of the reaching great oak.

He spat onto the ground, saliva thick with a splodge of blood. Joluneer and Welneer shot to his hands as he stood, hairs pricking up on the back of his neck to dodge the suddenly very alive and very dangerous oak tree that was trying to stab him with razor sharp branches. The old tree was growling, branches swinging in every direction - but mainly his.

Huh. He'd never had an attempt on his life by a tree before.

Crashes came from within the house but the tree was impossible to get away from, Letho being forced to duck and dive whereever possible. Quick on his feet but quicker of mind, he danced around the branches until there was an opening for the main trunk. Spotting it in the span of a second, he lunged.

Welneer speared through the knot that was the heart of every magic tree and the branches stilled. Letho dropped to a knee, pulling the thick branch out of his abdomen. Blood gushed from the wound but it hadn't broken through the other side, only his front, so he'd be fine even if he would need to repair his armour later.

The mage started laughing. Letho was on his feet in an instant, fighting against the lightheaded rush as he sprinted back up to the house. He dived into the kitchen in time to pull up a Quen around him and Tarviel, halting the dark magic tendril that would've done a lot more than add to the blood running down Tar's back.

"The bastard's after Master," spluttered Tarviel as he slapped bloodied hands over a deep gash in his leg. With a squelch he'd applied enough pressure to force his healing to hurry up and the long gash that had been there was gone. The mage smirked down at them, two Vipers bloody and crouched under a Quen, and raised his hand.

Dread filled Letho.

Those red hands joined his, reinforcing the Quen just as the lightning bolt surged down, tearing the house apart as it hammered into them. Letho grunted under the strain of pure magic battling with his earth-derived chaos Sign but the addition of Tar helped. They lasted the full ten seconds, panting (at the same speed an average human breathed normally) by the end of it. Their Quen had stood strong, even if its colour had flickered ominously.

The mage wasn't pleased if his snarl meant anything.

"Bastard monsters," he spat at them, magic bubbling around his hands.

"This your message?" Tarviel shouted back. Letho recognised his stance and readied to open the Quen for the split second they needed. "Leave it after the beep!"

His brother threw his bomb out to the mage but the man just laughed. Letho shouted as the mage's magic wormed through the minute gap he'd created for the bomb. The room was dark with magic, every crack and corner teeming with this man's power. Very suddenly, for the first time in centuries, Letho feared for not only his life, but his brother's as well.

"You want my message?" Thundered the man, a thick bubble of magic crushing the grapeshot bombs. "Here it is."

The Quen shook under the sudden force of the magic both Letho and Tarviel were trying to close it around. Tremors wracked the Sign before sharp, deep cracks spread outwards from the magic tendril. Both Vipers roared under the strain, sharing a desperate look with each other.

Usually, Letho despised retreating, but sometimes the situation called for it.

"That's it - go and run to your Master!" Screamed the man, venomous cackles riveting through Letho's resolve. The dark magic was spreading from their crack, curling towards them. It touched Tarviel and he shied back, a hiss caught in his throat as the blood on his hands bubbled. "Tell him I'll gut him."

"Who exactly?" Tarviel managed, a hand already working up to clutch Letho's medallion.

"I'll give you a clue," the magic grew stronger as the man babbled. Letho's arms were shaking. His arms had never shook before. Not in battle. "I'm the one who ruined his Wolf's reputation!"

Tarviel choked on a breath at the same time Letho did. The magic was too much, too suffocating. His lithe fingers curled around Letho's medallion finally and he screamed.

"Medallion: Thirty-Six!"

Light wrapped around Letho's vision and when he opened his eyes he was kneeling on a stark white floor. The smell of antiseptics and bleach curled through him. A few feet ahead of him and Tarviel, Ragnar rocked to a stop, shock sharp in the air.

"Boys," he hurried over, hands clutching at them. One gripped Letho's bicep and righted him as the other palmed Tarviel's flushed neck. "What happened?"

"A mage," Tarviel explained, stumbling to his feet like a newborn under Ragnar's worried eye. Letho needed a second more than him, stalling for the hole in his stomach to seal up. The youngest the the three present sheathed his fangs shakily and ran quivering fingers through his short hair only seeming to realise they were coated in his blood after the motion. "A mage attacked us. He's after Master- who- who was he?"

That question was directed at Letho. He looked up, into the thin slits of Ragnar's eyes, then up into the harried, afraid slant of Tarviel's and cleared his throat with a grunt. His nerves felt like they were on fire, his eyes burning and teeth aching. He squeezed his fangs' handles so tight they squeaked under the pressure.

"Stregobor."

Ragnar's breath caught in his chest.


	5. go tell the wraith we've got spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jaskier meets the crew. lambert brews vodka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: swearing, excessive drinking, witchery violence and scars, banter with scarred people (epm) including possible inappropriate topics, discussion of attacks, brief flight/flight response, protective magic, implied injury/blood, suggestive thoughts (sexual/of attraction), offensive nicknames,

The door slammed and Triss' hand jolted, nearly ruining her brewing of the Wives' Tears Lambert had asked her for. She muttered under her breath as the potion swirled between colours ominously.

Black to green it went. She tensed. If it turned blue it was going to explode. Damn it, this would be the third apartment in sixty years. Triss hated flat shopping. Green to-

Lambert stomped into the living room, a reassuring presence despite his physique. The table shook. The potion bubbled. "Whatcha doin'?"

It turned purple. She sighed in relief and grabbed the vials for bottling. "Your Wives' Tears are done. How's Geralt's flat?"

"Looks fine," grumped the man. "Roommate looks like some sorta fucking model."

"You jealous?" She snickered, corking the last of the batch. "They can't be prettier than me."

The youngest Wolf witcher leveled her with a flat stare. "Geralt is."

Triss sighed but the smile was gnawing at her lips. "Why do I even bother?" She gestured to the four bottles of Wives' Tears. "So are we going to get blackout drunk tonight or is that a thing for tomorrow?"

"I'm gonna call Eskel," grinned Lamb. "And us three can go party at Geralt's. Tomorrow; when he's not banging together his bedframe."

Triss raised her eyebrow.

"It's a celebration," Lambert said, dropping down onto the cushion-covered couch. "He's got somewhere cooler than us so we have to go punish him."

"By getting blackout drunk?" She asked, because that was all Wives' Tears was good for - elevating the pains of hangovers.

Lambert nodded, trying to make her see things how he did. "At his place."

She didn't understand. "Okay."

"Come on, you have to come! It's weird if it's just me and Eskel."

"Because he beat you at charades that one time?"

Lambert flushed red but still looked determined. "No! Because he's been living the past sixteen years believing getting blackout drunk isn't worth it - you're my only hope, Triss!"

"Fine," she appeased, twirling her hair like she hadn't been in on it the whole time. Lambert's grin widened. "But I'm bringing Yen."

"Ciri and Coën can't make it so the more the merrier," Lambert cackled. Triss shot her four potion bottles a glance and decided she should probably make a few more. Just in case. _Yeah_.

Geralt's shared flat looked meek on the outside. The building was dark and dreary, at least six floors tall and situated in one of the worst places in the city of Qvinin - a nobody's dump on the edge of one of the most dangerous forests of the century, excluding Brokilon. Triss highly suspected Geralt had moved in solely for the close proximity for the forest.

And if he hadn't, he must've been drunk when he'd accepted the offer.

"This place is a dump," frowned Yennefer as they trailed up the stairway, narrowly avoiding touching a suspicious looking crack that seemed to trail the entire wall. The space from wall to the stair railing was so narrow Lambert and Eskel, being the muscular hunks they were, had been forced into single file and even Triss and Yennefer had opted to go on different steps to avoid any chances of scraping along the grime that was _everywhere._

"It must've been cheap," Triss added her agreement. "Or else we're gonna have to check him for enthrallment."

"He smelt fine when we arrived yesterday," Lambert grouched. "And sure, the stairs look like shit, but the apartment's pretty cool."

"Of course, our whole reason for being here," Yennefer rolled her eyes.

Eskel smirked. "He gave you that reason too?"

"I did not!" Yelled Lambert. "I didn't even bring her."

"I told her what he told me," shrugged Triss as they came upon the top floor. The landing seemed more spacious, the hallway stretching endlessly in the dark. She was grateful for the lack of lights, afraid of what she'd see on the weirdly dark carpet if there was full visibility.

Eskel choked on a breath, making a weird snorting noise that depicted what the place smelled like accurately enough. It didn't stop Yen from smirking at him.

"C'mon, this shit's heavy," Lambert whined, pushing ahead to trod down the hall. His arms were full of his latest batch of pseudo-vodka (pseudo because he'd made it and anything Lambert made was chock full of alcohol; as in, beyond the average humans' limit. Lambert's homebrew was so intoxicating sometimes Triss wondered how he hadn't given himself, or anyone else, alcohol poisoning - he probably had). He'd tipped his current batch into the little glass bottles sprite used to use, storing them in those bottle crates. He was lugging six crates, each one holding twelve bottles.

"You were the one who wanted it," Eskel reminded, offering Triss an eye roll as he trailed after his brother, taking a few of Lambert's lightest packs to carry himself. The brothers growled at each other, both trying to worm down the hallway faster than the other.

"Why did I agree to this?" Yen murmured beside her.

"It might've been the promise of Wives' Tears after the fun of getting drunk," Triss suggested knowingly. Yen shared her eye twinkle.

Geralt's door was, at least, pretty. Covered in painted golden vines that curled around a slim 28 numerical, and practically thick with protective wards. The place was well hidden from the mortal eye but one look at it and Triss knew Geralt hadn't moved in with just _anyone_. Not even she recognised half these spells.

Lambert reached for the door but was stopped as his hand turned the doorknob. He frowned, growling as he tried to turn it. "Fuckface won't open."

"That what you say when the whores don't like you?" Eskel breezed past him, his crates set gently on the ground as his hand reached out for the knob. "Here, let me."

Just as his fingers touched the handle Triss felt the air clog up with magic. She and Yen shared a hurried glance of shock before the two witchers in front of them were blown back by an invisible shield of some sort. Triss automatically braced herself, kness bending minutely as her palms warmed with magic.

"What the fuck!" Lambert exclaimed.

The door handle jiggled and opened from the inside. Geralt's unimpressed gaze landed on Triss first, flickering over the others and resting on his disgruntled brothers' faces. "What?"

Yen cut off a laugh, making it sound sharp. Triss let the magic fade back inside of her, coiling like a content eel, hands cooling. "Just who is your roommate, Geralt?"

Geralt gazed at them before throwing the painted door wide. "Jaskier."

Triss felt her heart quicken. "As in-?"

"The Master Viper - _that_ Jaskier, Geralt?" Yennefer whistled. "Triss get in here, he's stunning for an old man."

Geralt rolled his eyes which Triss took as permission before jumping alongside Yen in his mind. The image of a man, brown hair to his waist, plaited beautifully, high cheekbones and sharp slitted amber eyes. A medallion hung around his neck, a viper with gemmed eyes. Melitele, for a supposed six hundred year old _plus_ man, he was drop dead gorgeous.

Another image joined, the same man, leaning into a white marble countertop, cheeks flushed as blood ran down his legs. He was drinking from a glass of water, amber slitted eyes reflecting on the glass. Geralt's hand appeared, a facecloth clutched tight. Apprehension and worry coated the memory, alongside a particular amount of lust.

Triss let her eyebrow raise. Yennefer was stifling her giggles. Lambert sighed.

"Hey, I'm here to get drunk, not have you two oogle the oldie in Geralt's brain."

"You mean you're here to get _Geralt_ drunk, right?" Eskel teased.

Lambert huffed and probably would've went in for a dig had his hands not been full with his vodka once more. His sharp gaze turned on his brother as the group finally entered the clean smelling flat. Triss cast her gaze around, silently marvelling at how _nice_ the place looked. Everything - from the gleaming window that cast the room in a warm shade and spanned the entire left wall, from roof to corner, to the white marble topped kitchenette - looked _exquisite_. It was evident the spells on this place weren't all for protection. The differences between this single apartment and the rest of the building was enough to give anyone whiplash.

"Why the fuck does this place stink of Bloedzuiger?"

There was a pause where Eskel looked like he agreed with his brother's question; Triss sniffed at the air. She'd worked plenty with Bloedzuiger guts and blood yet she could barely smell it over the sweet citrus scent that seemed to flow on an invisible air current.

 _Magic_ , she realised.

The flat was charmed heavily, almost every crack chock full with magic. The thought made her excited, a revelation that _this_ was what a witcher Master could do to protect his home. Yen strode into the bowels, elegantly dropping onto the firm looking leather L-shaped couch. Lambert dumped his vodka atop the gleaming marble island, shoving a bottle into Eskel's hand as he set his pack beside his. The youngest Wolf stared dauntingly at his white haired brother.

Geralt buckled under the pressure of his brothers' combined stares: "It wasn't me."

Eskel looked surprised. Lambert snorted, "Yeah right, like we're gonna believe the fucking _Master Viper_ came home covered in Bloedzuiger guts. They're _acidic,_ Geralt. Too embarrassed to admit you need to replace your third set of armour this year?"

"You trying to say he showed up and splashed guts everywhere?" Yen snapped her fingers and floated two bottles over to her. She offered one to Triss. Taking it, she smiled in thanks.

"He's older than me," said Geralt, snagging one of the glass bottles as Eskel popped the cork of his own. They were all corked because Lambert was weird like that.

"Great, we knew that already," grumped Lambert. "That some sort of defence against your armour?"

Grunting, Geralt popped his cork and took a long swig.

Triss grinned, "Cheers to Geralt not living at home any more!"

The growl she got was more than worth it. Not like she was scared: she lived with _Lambert_ , of all people. She winked at him and snapped for the tv buttons. Getting drunk was way better with shitty movies.

The sun was setting by the time the tv - at least 60 inches wide - had ended up on the box streaming channel, showing an endless line up of nineties movies that were old by the newer generation's standards.

Lambert had somehow ended up slumped on the floor, knocked out on his side, beside the coffee table and Triss kinda wanted to join him, pleasantly floaty from her three bottles. Yen was sprawled beside her on the couch, long legs stretched over her lap, keeping Triss securely under her - probably the only thing keeping her where she was. Her fellow mage was working at her long black hair, plaiting it to the best of her ability.

Geralt was nursing the same bottle he'd been handed when they entered and although he couldn't be drunk, the smirk he wore was lilting towards fondly amused rather than his usual _why are you bothering me_ glower.

Eskel had taken up residence beside Lambert, sitting up, unlike his brother. He'd also been trying to draw on the tosser's face with a sharpie Yen magicked up for him - had been attempting this gracious feat for the past ten minutes. It was honestly more amusing to watch him worm past a witcher's jerkiness whilst asleep than watching whatever fantasy movie was on right now.

A whistle of dust circled on the floor, beside the marble island. Triss froze, nearly giving herself whiplash as she turned her neck. Internally gawking at the sheer strength of the magic radiating from it for all of a second, she watched, Yennefer's hands stilling as she too turned to look. It was stronger than anything she'd sensed before, but it was dampened to within a certain perimeter to avoid unintentional detection - meaning it was old, _powerful_ magic. A man appeared, mind shielded beyond belief. His amber eyes seemed to glow in the orange of the sunset. His long hair swirled in the aftershocks of the magic, finally settling at his waist.

Eskel jolted at the sight of him, stopping as the rest of them did, freezing in their activites. The Wolf medallions were visibly shaking. His eyes were wide, already hunching down to protect himself and his prone brother, but the man simply nodded at them.

"Who the fuck?" Lambert barked, very suddenly awake. He clutched his bottle like a lifeline, brandishing it as the man tilted his head, eyes fluttering leisurely.

"Your friends, Wolf?" Asked the Bloodied Snake, a man that had defied all laws against witchers and had gotten away unharmed. Jaskier, the Master Witcher of the Viper School, looked no older than thirty. The armour chestplate clutched in his hand seemed to glimmer, long firm boots that were black as soot running up his legs, sharp looking bracers with twining snakes curling around the cuff and the twin blades sheathed by his sides all clear signs of who he was. "You really should put that bottle down, cub. Lest I do something foolish."

Eskel seemed wary but knocked Lambert up the side of his head nonetheless. "You're threatening a man in his own home, Lambert, you prick."

"Well maybe he shouldn't have snuck up on us," growled the man as he lowered the bottle - amusingly full of vodka.

"I assure you, it was not intended." Sniped the man, casting a waylong glance at the shut door. For a moment Triss thought he might chase them out - as he had a right to do, this _was_ his flat after all, and they'd shown up uninvited. Then, he nodded, turned on his heel and stalked off through a door beside the counters. His voice carried from the hallway, obviously able to hear how they hadn't resumed their earlier movements. "Carry on."

Yen smirked and went back to plaiting her hair. Triss looked at her, initiating eye contact, when the woman tapped her arm.

 _Could you read him?_ She asked mentally, her presence radiating curiosity.

 _No,_ Triss responded, eyes catching on the tv as whoever was the main character made a heroic sacrifice 'for the greater good'. Lambert had shifted his attention to it as well and was scowling quite vocally at it. _It was like running into a steel wall._

 _Interesting_.

Yen finished her plait just as the Viper returned, dressed in a plain grey tunic that scooped to his knees. He acknowledged no one though Lambert glared at his back as he opened the fridge and rooted around in it. Silvery scars littered his legs, a particularly large, gruesome looking one taking up nearly the entirety of his right calve, arcing along his inner knee and travelling up under the tunic. Triss wondered what had happened.

"Grapes?" He questioned. Triss blinked in confusion.

"They're for you," Geralt replied, withstanding the four stares he received. He took a long swig of his bottle and stared right back.

"Ah, good," mused Jaskier. Triss watched him withdraw from the fridge, clutching a few red grapes in his hand. He shifted around the kitchenette, poking at his phone for a moment before looking over to the litany of bottles still on the island. "What vodka is this?"

"Only the best homebrew in the entire fucking Continent," boasted Lambert proudly, brandishing his own, now opened, bottle. "There's cherry, lemon and sour grape flavours."

Jaskier grabbed on of the ones with a green string on it; sour grape. Triss sipped at her drink as the Viper raised the bottle up but paused when it passed his elbow-area. His nose scrunched minutely. "How much alcohol is in this?"

"More than enough to knock a human off their high horse for a few days."

"More like weeks," Triss corrected. Jaskier looked up to her, amber eyes piercing her with such scrutiny it was as if he was methodically pulling her apart layer by layer before putting her back together again. She repressed a shiver when the man's gaze snapped to Yen, pupils thin as a paper sheet's edge.

The Viper snarled lowly, every witcher in the room tensing at the sound. Jaskier's lips curled back to reveal sharp, threatening canines. "Get out of my head, Sorceress."

Yennefer laughed as if the feral looking witcher didn't faze her. Maybe he didn't but Triss could feel her leg jump minutely. "You can ask nicely, Viper."

"I have granted you far more luxury than you know, Yennefer of Vengerberg." He stood tall, grabbing another bottle and prowling over to them. Lambert was sneering at him, Eskel's eyes couldn't stop darting around, analysing everything about the man. Geralt was still, not seeming concerned in the slightest at the prospect of an angry roommate. Triss had the briefest worry that Yen's fun and games was going to put Geralt out on the street before the Viper stopped in front of him and replaced his empty bottle with his spare. His gaze was sharp and unrelenting, amber flicking to Yennefer to all of a second. "Now stop pushing against my barriers before you see things you don't want to see."

"Don't be so sure," Yen taunted, but she'd been put off by the use of her name. The Viper seemed to know this too and nodded as she withdrew, sitting down neatly beside Geralt, legs pulled up as he pulled the cork out of his bottle. Lambert watched him eagerly, probably excited for when he choked on his first gulp - as most did.

But the man merely took a small sip and nodded. Then he took another, larger sip. And another, one that would perhaps constitute as a gulp. Lambert looked like he'd shitted himself. "This is good. 95%?"

Lambert had to swallow before he answered. "94%."

Geralt's roommate took another sip before nodding in agreement. "Ah, 94%. Spirytus Stawski was 96% - some good shit there." Triss pretended she was watching the movie on tv as she instead shot glances at the man. He'd closed his eyes, legs bending as if he was meditating - and maybe he was, with the way he was absentmindedly pulling his bottle up to his lips for swigs every now and then.

She ran out of vodka so floated over seconds for her and Yen. The medallions shivered lightly at this and Jaskier's eyes shot open, quick gaze finding the source almost immediately. He smirked and took another swig. His bottle was nearly done so Triss shot him a meaningful look, glancing over to the bottles where her magic hovered.

"A red one, if you would." He nodded when she settled the bottle down in front of him.

Lambert tossed his head back, attention flickering between the tv and her. "Gimme a green, Triss."

"Get it yourself, you lazy ass." She snorted. She could've sworn she seen a hint of a smile on Jaskier's face before he downed the rest of his first bottle.

"I don't believe I caught some of your names," said Jaskier about five bottles later.

"I'm Triss Merigold," she offered up easily enough. She was maybe about four drinks in and already her head felt fuzzy, the world a little slower than normal. "A way better sorceress than Yen here."

"In your dreams," Yen goaded. "Who was the one that came to the other when they needed a little help in Rivia's sewers a few centuries back?"

Triss grinned, knocking shoulders with her sister in all but blood. "You."

Yennefer rolled her eyes, her long plait receiving a minor adjustment as she shook her head. "Whatever. I'm Yennefer of Vengerberg, but you already knew that."

"Indeed," agreed Jaskier. "It would be hard to be as old as I and _not_ have heard your name." He cast his gaze expectantly to the men lounging on his floor.

"The name's Lambert," snarled the man himself, firing off quick instructions for Eskel as the other got up to grab a bottle for himself. Reluctantly, Eskel returned with a second bottle for Lamb.

"And I'm Eskel," he added, face tilted to hide as much of his scar as possible.

"A forktail?" Quried Jaskier.

"Had a run-in with my Child Surprise," Eskel said, eyes averted.

Jaskier hummed but said no more on it. He looked to Lambert and motioned to the man's own two scars. The youngest puffed up.

"Cockatrice in Spalla."

"Bad bastards those are," nodded the Viper, absently tugging at the neck of his tunic to show a lengthy scar down his right collarbone where he'd evidently been ran through with something. "Met a tricky one near the Gwenllech once, thing nearly took my eye. Got my collarbone instead."

"That's far North for a broken bone," noted Geralt, speaking for the first time in a while.

"Letho was nearby," Jaskier said, eyes distant as he stared at the coffee table. His expression soured for a moment before lightening. "A 'Trice nearly slashed my Master's throat once, a damn close thing. He grew out his beard to hide it, saying he was ashamed to have let it get so close. When I was younger I thought it was cool."

Eskel looked up at him from his perch beside Lambert. "And now?"

"Just another sign of what he survived." Jaskier took a long swig of his drink that had his head tilting back, clearly emphasising the long scar that ran down his neck, digging into the side of his jaw. "I'm sure you're all aware, but I'm Jaskier."

Triss kept quiet, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn't.

Geralt spoke up, flushed with the liquor. "Should I introduce myself as well?"

Jaskier burst into rough laughter, bottle quivering in his hand. "No, Wolf, I don't believe you need to. What about hunts; I'm sure you lot have some better stories than my boys."

Lambert lit up, always up for a challenge, and thus began the recount of nearly every hunt he'd been on.


	6. somebody showed us horror, we weren't born with it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pietr's out here shitting himself. jaskier has a bit of a predicament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS : swearing, death threats, violence, Stregobor, blood, poisoning, exhaustion, anxiety, scarred men trying to live, mentioned death/murder,

Pietr ran his hand through his bunny's hair, curling his fingers at her nape just as she liked. The soft morning sun crawled towards him from between the cracks in the blinds, the rays of light beaming onto the wooden floorboards as Softie nibbled on his tunic.

He liked the city. Enjoyed Redania's soft bustling breeze and the markets below. Sure, up here in a studio apartment he was shielded from most of that, holed up in a high-rise building complex that was out of sight just enough to allow him to do just about anything.

Usually, Redania wasn't good for them - too low on contracts and all, being a _big_ city that was mostly guarded. Except for recently, there'd never been anything in this curt market place. Now, reports of nearly everthing from drowners in the sewers to griffins in the countryside of the far-out suburbs were making their way inwards to grace his ears. Through sourcing out the right leaders and locals, he'd managed to make more money in the past month here than he had the entirety of last year.

If he stayed here for the next few months, as he wanted to seeing as he'd leased out this apartment for the stated period, he'd easily surpass Lanir's predicted income for himself. That would be a fun achievement to flaunt. Him, as one of the youngest, making more money than most of the elders. He'd enjoy the laugh.

Not that he'd laugh in Master's face. He had some tact. He liked his arms.

Softie, his white Netherland Dwarf Rabbit, snuffled into the hem of his trackies before bouncing off to grab another piece of lettuce from her bowl by the window.

The apartment he'd leased out was without furniture, designed to be ideal for people who actually had that stuff. Pietr didn't have anything other than his camping gear but he much more enjoyed sleeping in the main room with the three sided windows than sleeping in a small, caged bedroom. If any of his brothers were to find out his penchance, they'd waste no time in whacking him over the head because glass was fragile and Pietr had a custom for breaking fragile things.

It was a surprise even to him that he hadn't broken anything yet.

In the corner by the door, at the charging plug socket, his phone buzzed. Softie glanced up at it, pausing in her murder of her lettuce before deeming it unimportant. Pietr rubbed at his eyes, leaning back to stretch before curling back up as his bones groaned wantonly. Young as he was, he was still older than _every_ human alive and his body liked to remind him of this in the mornings.

Feeling lazy, he rolled back into his nest of blankets and pillows, and fell into a peaceful doze.

Something wet snuffed his cheek. Pietr didn't groan, because he'd been trained out of that _oh hey there big dangerous monster, I'm still alive_ habit. Instead, his eyes peeled open, narrowed like slits - narrow enough for most monsters to still think him dead - and let out a relieved breath at the white fluff of Softie nuzzling him with her nose.

"Had me scared there, little one," he murmured, uncurling a hand from his chest to draw a finger down her side. She blinked at him, red eyes not as vacant as one would expect, and nudged him when his eyes fluttered shut. Obligingly, he opened his eyes again, noticing the cold blob of plastic that she shoved into his face very suddenly.

He startled, gripping at his phone as he hurried to clear his throat and peel his face off the wooden floor where he'd rolled off the blankets. Softie made a soft noise at him, like a snort. He glared heatedly, wondering how she'd managed to get his phone off the charger without electrocuting herself or something. Smart little bunny.

She received a tuck under her chin in thanks as he flicked on his phone. There were three messages from someone but he couldn't tell who - a damn effect from that lockscreen default he'd turned on so that just anybody couldn't see his notifications. In fact, he was half sure that Lanir had went around every Viper's phone last year and turned it on after a startlingly close call himself (one that he'd refused to talk about). No one had called him out on it, even if it was slightly annoying.

Rolling his neck out, he signed into his phone and blinked at the three messages from Gerring. Merlitele, had the old man had a heart attack or something? He _never_ texted this much. Pietr understood why after he'd clicked on the messages.

The first: _report home ._

The second, fifteen minutes later: _as soon as possible ._

And finally, the last, just a few minutes ago: _are you awake ? don ' t make me come over there ! i know what number you are_

Pietr snorted, rolling out from under Softie as he stood and typed out a reply. Sure, everyone had assigned numbers for the medallions - it was how they kept check of the others whereabouts should something happen - but Pietr knew fully well that Gerring wouldn't come to him. The old man hated portalling.

He was proven wrong as a flick of magic curled around him and Gerring appeared before him, expression dark enough to rival a thunderstorm. Pietr choked on his saliva, fingers stalling on hitting send.

"Gerring," he spluttered, words seeming suddenly so far away as the older man shoved a rack of potions into his hands. In his rush, Pietr nearly dropped his phone in his hurry to shove it into his pocket to accept the potions. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I sent you three texts," grumbled the man, like that was reason enough for why he'd portalled. "I need you to take these to Jaskier."

Pietr blinked down at the full rack of potions, silently wondering how long Master'd been running low if he'd finally caved and asked Gerring for a restock of _everything._ In his silence, Softie bounded up to Gerring and headbutted his boot in greeting.

The older Viper huffed a breath and bent over to pick her up. She was barely the size of his hand. Gerring looked up to him expectantly as he righted himself, Softie cradled in his arms as he rubbed her ears. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

"Why didn't you just portal to him?" Pietr chanced, toeing on his ankle-highs in the corner nonetheless. He couldn't risk putting down any of the potions with Gerring near him so he concentrated a very small Quen into two sticks to tie his laces for him. Gerring watched silently.

"You're getting good at that," snorted the older man. "And why should I portal to him when you can for me."

"Would've saved a lot of time if you hadda just went," complained Pietr. He carefully adjusted his grip to hold the rack in one hand and grabbed his medallion. "He's at his place, isn't he?"

Gerring nodded, stomping over to peer at the blinds over the windows as the magic wrapped around Pietr. The younger man resigned himself to coming back to Gerring sitting with Softie, or something as equally annoying on the man's part. He was just like that.

"Medallion: Twenty-Eight."

Master's apartment smelt of vodka and the ice-cool scent of witchers. Startled, Pietr blinked at the marble island littered with crates of alcohol. From the first whiff, the stuff was _strong._ The confirmation of that was the pile of witchers that lay in the lounge. It took everything he had not to drop the potion rack.

Two females had ended up strewn over each other in the short of the L, two witchers having created a pile on the floor whilst Master had curled up on his side, his head in a white-haired man's lap. Said white haired man stared at him, golden slit eyes firm on him. The wolf medallion he wore proudly nearly made Pietr choke.

He made to step forwards, but wavered, unsure if that would help. He didn't believe Master would willingly lie atop a _Wolf_ witcher - maybe one of their own, sure, but not a _Wolf,_ whose School he'd hated for _years._ Pietr opened his mouth to speak but the Wolf quietly raised a finger to his mouth and motioned for silence.

Unnerved, Pietr narrowed his eyes at him. The Wolf narrowed his own back, hand curling down the back of Master's neck as he slept. Swallowing softly, Pietr decided the witcher was of no threat (because he'd never seen Master _that_ peaceful in sleep, not even at home) and turned around.

With his back to the witcher, the room felt larger than it was, breezy and thick with the heed of liquor. Every sound was booming to his ears as Pietr quietly set the rack atop the counter and slipped Master's potion box out from its place on the top shelf. He restocked it quickly, making sure to not chink the vials together loud enough to stir Master. The state of the box - near empty aside for a Tawny Owl and a Cat - made something inside him pulse in worry, ever aware of how Master toed the line of not having enough all too often. Qvinin didn't have enough apothecarys, nor did enough plants grow in the forest for Master to brew his own potions.

When he was done, he closed the box and nestled it back in place. The Wolf was still staring at him but a low sigh of Master's - a sign he was stirring - drew that golden gaze away from him, down to the head pillowed on his thigh. Pietr could almost admit the sight of someone protecting Master for a change was reassuring.

Master peeled an eye open, gaze thick with the cloud Pietr had often seen in him when hungover from Letho's extra strong White Gull brew. Whatever Master had drunk last night must've been good. He eyed the bottles in the packs.

"Morning," the Wolf rubbed a hand down Master's head, fingers digging in to prod at his neck. Unlike as Pietr would expect, Master made no move to dislodge the witcher's hand, instead humming leisurely.

Very suddenly, he felt like an intruder, terribly out of place amongst the marble and liquor.

With a low hiss, one that showed just how dry Master's mouth was, Master shuffled his face deeper into the Wolf's thigh. With a soft look, the man moved his hand to Master's shoulder and squeezed gently.

"There's a Wives' Tears potion for you, if you'd like it?" Offered the Wolf, gazing pointedly towards Pietr. The Viper caught his drift and glanced around the island, finding half a dozen familiar purple potions stashed in one of the crates.

He grabbed one, crossing the room in a few long strides. Pietr had to stoop over the coffee table as he handed the potion over (but only after smelling it). The Wolf nodded in thanks as he softly manhandled Master into a sitting position against his side.

Pietr stood for a few more seconds, assuring himself that the Wolf wasn't poisoning his Master because the potion really _did_ smell like the apriocot-violet blend of Wives' Tears. Still, he watched as the Wolf uncorked the bottle and eased it into Master's closest hand. Master downed it without hesitation.

There was a second in which, between Master moving the potion to his mouth and him swallowing it, that Pietr panicked, eyes narrowing dangerously at the Wolf. If this killed Master he'd slash the witcher's throat before the others could wake. And if that meant he'd have to go on the run from angry Wolves, then so be it.

But then, Master's eyes opened, their usual glinting amber, and Pietr sagged only the slightest bit, relieved. Master blinked at him, eyes flicking around the other sleeping people in his lounge.

"Pietr," he said, confused for a moment before realisation settled. "Ah, Gerring sends his apologies, does he? What was it this time, a sudden bout of snow?"

They shared a smile at the excuses the man usually came up with to stay in the keep.

"He portalled to me, actually," he said, nodding at the eyebrow raise. "Yep. Told me to come anyway so I filled your box."

"Thanks, kid," smiled Master, arms reaching above him to stretch as his eyes closed. The long tunic he wore rode up suggestably and Pietr wasted no time in shooting a glare at the Wolf when he eyed the raise. When Master's eyes opened again, Pietr bowed like he hadn't mentally envisioned gutting the witcher beside him.

"I'll be going then, before Gerring does something to Softie."

He caught the hint of a smile from Master as he clutched his medallion and portalled away to Twenty-One.

Geralt snorted, a sly finger snaking onto Jaskier's thigh that he watched carefully. "Softie?"

The Master Viper hummed, decided he approved of the heat the Wolf radiated and slung his legs over the man's lap. Geralt, for his part, only paused for a moment before curling a warm hand around his right ankle, kneading the angry red scars there. It had been years since Jaskier had been sensitive of his scars so he allowed the touch.

"He has a bunny," he said. "She's a little Netherland Dwarf. Cutest thing you'll see in years."

"He win her through the Law of Surprise? Eskel won Lil' Bleater like that."

Although pleased Geralt was more talkative after a night of drinking, Jaskier found himself irritated. Something prickled under his skin, starting as a slow ache that transpired to a ball of anxiety in his stomach. It wasn't the potion, he knew, because no potion reacted like this, poison or not. He dug his left hand into his tunic, out of Geralt's sight, and gripped his medallion. His stomach felt tight all of a sudden but he continued the conversation anyway.

"No, my boys'll get beheaded if they even accept the Law and they know it. He received her as payment a few years back, when the town had no money for him."

The Wolf nodded. "And he called her Softie? He sounds as imaginative as Eskel."

With a groan the other piped up from his place on the floor, startling Jaskier. He hadn't even heard him awaken. "I didn't chose her name, Geralt."

"Sure," mocked Geralt and whilst Jaskier would've been amused by the brotherly bickering any other day - he'd grown long used to it with his boys - the knot of soft anxiety in his stomach quickly morphed to a hardened brick of pain. His breath came short. His medallion was warm under his palm.

"Jaskier?" Came Geralt's voice, barely a whisper to Jaskier as he shot to his feet. The pain spread, wrapping around his legs and chest and pulsing through him. His lungs felt heavy as he clutched his medallion tighter. His fingers were numb.

With more focus than usual, his mind locked onto the stream of constant magic that bound their medallions; a stream that only he, as its Master, could access. It was something he listened to as background noise, a soft gentle chime in the back of his head. Right now, the stream - usally crisp and clear - was shaking and shaded. He couldn't breathe as he dipped into it, vaguely aware of hands reaching for him.

Three of his boys were in the same place, worried and injured. Letho, Tarviel and Ragnar.

Jaskier felt the world slip away from him as he called for the medallion to portal him.

"Medallion: _Thirty-Six!"_

The cool tile of Ragnar's dentistry office rocked through him, the change in temperature making his right leg ache. His heart was pounding. The scent of Letho's blood was thick.

"Boys!" He roared, barely taking a moment to right himself as he pushed open the doors into Ragnar's home. Here it was warmer, a noticeable difference despite the fact the office and inner lounge were all in the same building.

Three men jolted at the sound of his voice, heads turning to stare at him as he steamlined towards them. Letho looked too pale so he went to him first, palm out to feel for a temperature as he cooed deep in his throat and felt for the telltale hint of bandages. He ran his hands over the cotton shirt and felt a buldge at his abdomen. Saddened but not alarmed, Jaskier pulled the shirt up, despite Letho's breathy protest, and had to bite down on his tongue to stop the keen in his throat from meeting daylight.

"Please, Jas, I'm fine," encouraged Letho, large hands already pushing at his hips. "Nothing to worry over. Ragnar got us cleaned up."

His mind riveted on those words, turning to do the same check on Tarviel. "What happened? Who got you both?" He hissed as he came across the bandages around Tar's chest. Reverently, he pulled the boy forwards by his thin shoulders and peered down at the long blood stain through the long of his back, pressed through the canvas.

Ragnar sighed. "How did you know to come, Master?"

Jaskier frowned at him, heart still rabbiting. The brick had grown in his stomach, more than just pain or anxiety now. His medallion felt weirdly sharp under his tunic, hot on his skin. A tickle started at the back of his throat and as he turned to cough into his hand his fingers splattered with red.

The red flooded his hand, running down both his wrist and his fingers. _Drip_ _, drip, splat,_ it mocked as it fell to the floor, large droplets cascading like a waterfall. He felt light.

He was being hauled into a chair instantly, Ragnar hovering over him as his fingers pushed and prodded. He pressed against the hollow of Jaskier's throat, forcing a low gurgle out of him. Strong hands gripped him and pulled him forwards, leaving him unsure of when he'd tipped back. Blood dripped from his mouth as he opened his mouth in a pant, a cardboard dentistry bowl being held under him for him to choke into.

"Get a Kiss," he heard Ragnar demand. The world was swaying around him, shoulders heavy now with the gaunt of weight. Jaskier coughed into the bowl some more, the blood a startling black. Around him, all three Vipers cursed.

"White Honey!" Hollered Ragnar, teetering Tarviel into action as the boy raced for the room where Ragnar kept his potions. The black blood just kept coming and soon Jaskier was feeling hollow inside as his gut felt like it was tearing itself apart.

"Jaskier," a cool, scarred hand pressed against his sweaty forehead. He peeled his eyes open to glimpse Ragnar's black moustache and worried eyes. "Where does it hurt? The poison is centered somewhere, you have to tell us where."

Suddenly feeling angry at Geralt as he pieced together the pain and potion - but Pietr had been there too, so it couldn't have been the Wolf - Jaskier motioned towards his stomach, too busy spluttering into the bowl to speak.

"Easy, it's alright," Ragnar soothed, reaching forward with a Sign he'd stolen from the Griffin School to isolate the pain. He pulled it forth, startling a scream out of Jaskier as the glowing blue orb was pulled out of him, a writhing mass of black shaking within.

This was no poison. Someone had cursed something he'd came into contact with. Most likely the Wives' Tears. But that didn't make sense, because Geralt had handled it too and he would've felt the thrum of a curse when he held the glass vial himself. His medallion would've-

Jaskier lost his trail of thought, left to blink numbly at the steadily increasing amount of black he was still coughing up.

At a reprieve in choking his guts up, he was tucked against a broad chest as he tried to calm his breathing, a blessed and charmed White Honey pushed against his lips. The pain still coursing through him persuded him to take it.

"Master," Letho called, scarred callused fingers pressing against his cheek lightly. Jaskier shot awake to the sight of all his Vipers gathered in Ragnar's lounge, all seated stiffly on the three couches around the low table. He felt tense, couped sideways into Letho's muscular side. He blinked and tried to focus on the conversation at hand.

"It's evident we've made an enemy," Gerring said, ever blunt. The worry in his eyes was undeniable, the scent thick in the air. It overpowered Jaskier, the strong hum of pepper making something seize in him. Before he even knew what was happening, Letho had tipped him forwards, a clean bowl at his mouth as he coughed and hacked up enough black goo to drown a small fish.

His throat ached. He looked up blearily to find all eyes on him, concern prominent. The pepper thickened; he gagged. Letho's hand rubbed his back.

"Who?" Asked Ilester. "We've angered no one as a whole after the Twelfth Century. Why would they strike now and-?"

"Letho and I had a run in with a mage," Tarviel broke over the chatter. "He said he was sending a message to Master."

"And?" Demanded Gerring.

"When was this?" Queried Serrit. "We could track his tail."

"I doubt it," declared Ragnar, bringing a stunned silence. "They encountered Stregobor last night."

Jaskier erupted into choked splutters, lungs feeling like leaden weight as Letho tried to soothe him. Seconds later, when more goo was being retched, Ragnar's hands cradled the back of his neck.

Amber eyes stared into his but Jaskier felt himself droop, mind slowing as his thoughts chugged. "Pietr, grab a White Rafford's Decoction."

So Stregobor had somehow poisoned him? Did he have a mole in the Wolves? Who had originally brewed the potions?

"We isolated the Wolves at your place, Master," said Auckes, as if he was just remembering the information himself. "The potions weren't tampered with."

"Then how was he poisoned?" Lanir called, outraged. "He's obviously taken something!"

"And the Wives' Tears was the only thing he'd taken," added Ilester.

"I isolated a curse, not poison," interjected Ragnar.

"And I sniffed the potion before the Wolf ever touched it, watched the hand-over," protested Pietr. "It couldn't have been the Wives' Tears."

The was a lull in conversation where Jaskier coughed up another mouthful of inky blackness. Ragnar's hands were warming on his neck, the bowl clutched in Jaskier's own hands. Odd, he could barely feel-

"Master?"

"Jaskier! Easy," Letho clutched at him, big hands wrapping around his chest and holding him upright. Ragnar's fingers prodded, breathing quickening.

"He shouldn't be- there's nothing left in his system _to_ purge! What's going on?"

"What do you mean," breathed Lanir. His Vipers were shifting towards him, expressions tense. "Aren't you meant to know?"

"Not now!" Yelled Ragnar. "Give me that Decoction!"

It was then Jaskier felt it. The blood running down his cheeks, the wave of wetness drooling down his lips and chin. Was he dying? His fingers shook, Jaskier graced with the ability to feel them for the first time in what felt like months. He heaved a breath to Ragnar's steady encouragement.

More black dripped but the bowl and the entirety of his front was mainly coated red. His chest felt sticky with-

The medallion.

"It's-" his lungs seemed to shake. He struggled to clear his airways as Letho's hand thumped at his back. The room was zooming around him, sound droning on like static on a tv. Jaskier broke through with a cry, tilting his head away from the White Rafford's Decoction that was nearing. "'da-on-"

"What?" Urged Ragnar, leaning back a tad. The stench of his own blood was nearly overwhelming, and if it was to Jaskier it most certainly was to the others. He could hardly smell anything. "What did he say?"

"Dahon?" Pietr tried. "What's that mean?"

"Try again, Jas," begged Letho. "Please."

And Melitele if Letho's high pitched fevour didn't hurt his chest more than it already was.

"Med-on," he choked, blood curving thickly down his cheeks now. His frustration bubbled under his skin as his Vipers shifted around him, unsure. "Meh- meda-l-n."

"Medallion?" Piped up Tarviel.

Jaskier could've hugged him. He nearly shook his head off in agreement instead.

"Is it hurting you?" Questioned Ragnar, pulling at the hem of his tunic only to freeze at whatever he seen.

The room exploded in anger. Jaskier swayed.

Suddenly, a fabric-wadded hand grabbed the metal chained viper and tugged it off his neck. Jaskier screamed, back arching at the _painpainpain_ that speared through his chest like the Nilfgaardian's spear had so long ago. An arm curled around him, something soft wiping at his face as he managed to suck in a breath.

"It's alright, you're good now," calmed Letho, Ragnar standing in Jaskier's perpherial as he peeled his eyes open. He'd ended up flopped in Letho's lap, body curled so he was sitting up, being cradled like a child. He felt sticky with blood but the bald man didn't seem to mind as he ran a wet cloth over his face and down his neck.

"The medallion was cursed," Ragnar appeared beside him. The White Rafford's Decoction from earlier was nudged against his lips. Exhausted, Jaskier drank it as quickly as his aching throat would allow. "How did you know?"

Jaskier slumped into the crook of Letho's neck, silent as his Second in Command wiped him down like a child. "Was burning," he finally managed to whisper, unable to speak any louder. "Wasn't my magic."

"Quite commendable," commented a voice and there was a clatter as every Viper aside from Letho rushed to stand. Jaskier, weak and tired, couldn't open his eyes to see who it was. He drooped into Letho's bulk, trusting him to protect him. 


	7. hold your breath and pray, this isn't your day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> today, Stregobor gets a shocking surprise. we get a smol peek at Lambert's head. Geralt worries. Jas is just tired okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any prompts or head cannons you guys want to see wormed in here? I'm willing to listen :)
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: swearing, blood, hallucinations, Stregobor, possible psychological horror (does thinking ur gonna die count?), insensitive topics of dialogue, past injury, threatening behaviour, 
> 
> Please tell me if I missed anything

"Although, I don't know what else I expected from the Master Viper," said Stregobor.

Gerring growled low in his throat, Maugrim joining the number of blades unsheathed in an instant. The Vipers sunk into a defensive form around Jaskier and Letho, all too aware of a mage's abilities. He himself was nearly numb with the revelation Jaskier had nearly been done in by a curse put on his own medallion. Stregobor being here was a very _unpleasant_ surprise.

"Such a strong will," cooed the one true monster, vanishing only to reappear in front of a cradled Jaskier. Letho hissed, unable to stand due to the dead weight in his grip, eyes narrowed dangerously as Joluneer rose from his left hand - the one not clutching Jaskier to his chest. Master looked so small, so vulnerable in the way Letho held his head to his shoulder, Master's legs bent over the larger man's lap. In that moment, all Gerring could see was the small child he'd seen grow up, the boy who'd shook after training sessions, the trainee who needed protection from the big dangerous world. Master was pale as a sheet, breaths barely audible over the thrum of everyone's hammering hearts. He looked nothing like the man who'd led them to victory, the leader who'd brought them home to Gorthur Gvaed; he needed to be saved from his monsters.

The Vipers would give their lives for him, they all knew. Gerring thought that maybe that time was now. They had to get him out of here but first the mage needed to be distracted.

"Get back," warned the Second, tone low and dangerous.

Stregobor laughed, the sound deep and reverberating. Around him the Vipers stood, fangs splayed wide in wait. They'd protect their own no matter what, surely the man knew killing one was a definite suicide.

"What a shame," finished the man, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. His robes fluttered with dormant magic, swirling around him like his own portal. "I'd hoped adding a little bit of my own magic into his medallion stream would be enough. I've been proven wrong."

He reached for Jaskier. Letho roared, canines bared, and shot him back with a fierce Aard. The mage shot through the doors at the end of the room, landing softly on his feet in the center of Ragnar's dentistry room with a curl of magic breaking his fall. The stark white lights shimmered on his beard and made his eyes look like they were glowing. The sheer arrogance in his smirk made Gerring wish the blast had broken his legs, _at least._

"That was your only warning," snarled Auckes.

"Fine by me," shrugged the mage, magic coiling in his hands like thunder clouds rolling over a city. The lights flickered, an unseen breeze whirling round the room. Maugrim felt heavy in his sweaty palms. "Just know, this will be all over if you hand over that whoreson you call _Master_ \- let's see how long you stand by your pretty ideals, shall we?"

A wave of blackness crashed forth, swallowing everything in the room. Around him, Quens sprung to life, the only light in the darkness. Gerring only barely managed to tug Pietr under one with him. The younger helped fortify it, but both their arms were shaking under the strain of the never-ending torment. Whatever this was, it was strong magic, possibly an illusion, but definitely dangerous seeing how it fizzled at the shields. The ground shook under his feet. Pietr's breaths were loud in their little space.

"We won't last," Tarviel shouted over the screaming _thrumthrumthrum_ of the monster's magic. "We have to strike or he'll break the Quens!"

Gerring grunted, readying to push his Quen forward, to expand it. He knew the actions before Letho even shouted the movement from his guarded place on the center couch.

"Devise Strike," the bald man boomed, pushing his own Quen that had wrapped around he and Jaskier forth. Together, the Vipers' Quens all formed together, surging onwards under their combined wills and singling out a large dome. The blackness crashed down, valiantly trying to smother them. It writhed like personified shadows, crashing and rearing back as if it had fists to batter their Quen with. They charged on to the sound of Stregobor's cackling laughter. Soon, they seen the mage standing where he was, a thin path from them to him.

"Impressive," nodded the mage, dissipating the wave of obscuring black with a tilt of his hand. In the absence of anything to push against, the large Quen battered off the walls and came to a cracking shatter of nothingness.

They stood, breathing heavily. Gerring's arms felt heavy with a weight he'd never before had. Serrit, Ilester and Tarviel stood in a line before them all, the first wave for the scattered Vipers. Stregobor paid them no attention, gaze firmly on the limp Jaskier in Letho's hold. Protectively, they all bunched closer to him. For the boy to not be awake after that meant he was either exhausted or Stregobor had pulled something.

Judging from how Master had been puking up blood and goo all afternoon, Gerring hoped it was the former.

Stregobor snorted, eyes glinting as he walked forth. He strode with a confidence that unnerved Gerring, because never in his long life had he seen such a man walk like that who couldn't flatten Nations. He'd seen Jaskier walk like that on the bloodied battlefield, stepping over mountains of dead black armoured soldiers, an anger in his eyes as he'd raised Elsiben to the Usurper's throat and demanded retribution. That was the day they'd reclaimed what was theirs. It was also a day that had ended in extreme bloodshed.

This man was no man at all. This was a monster. A thing that Gerring sorely did not want to face but would do so if it meant the survival of Jaskier. Because Jaskier was family, and he'd find no barrier for what he had to do for his family.

From the way the other boys all shifted, fangs clutched assuredly, they'd thought just about the same thing.

Suddenly, the monster stopped walking. He'd stopped in the middle of the room, caught in the middle of them like the group of highly trained witchers standing around him, weapons drawn, were of no threat to him. His snarl shifted to a cruel smile. Gerring felt a shiver run down his back, his hairs standing on end.

"Good of you to join us, Jaskier," smirked Stregobor. "What do you say to dying today?"

And then he was gone, the crack of his magic as he appeared before Master once more the only thing alerting anyone to his new position. Gerring's gut twisted uneasily as he span to watch them, Maugrim calling for blood by his side as he raised him, unsure of when he'd let him fall to such a position. The other Vipers stumbled a step back, Gerring felt his legs do the same, unable to stop himself. Fuck, he really hated magic.

Blades shining fiercely in the overhead lights, the Vipers tried to shift into low positions despite the evident setback of them all being unable to move. From Letho's aborted twitch, he was facing the same problem. Like this, Master was easy pickings. Stregobor - the coward - clapped gleefully, nodding as if he was a pleased cat who'd been served the cream in a bowl. With this arrangement, he damn had been.

"No further," hissed Ragnar, his fangs inches from Stregobor's neck and stomach as the monster reached out towards their dazed Master. The mage chuckled, idly stepping a hairs breadth away from the blades, taunting them all, before he leaned dauntingly over Letho, long bony fingers reaching out to wrap a lock of Master's wayward hair around his index finger. Letho's growl turned into a rumble that had Jaskier's eyelids fluttering, body still horrifically slack over Letho's lap. Stregobor tugged at the lock, releasing it with a low hum. His crooked back made him look like a crone.

Gerring wanted to gut him like one.

"What will you do?" Goaded the monster. Magic curled around him in wispy tendrils, black like the gloop Master had spent the afternoon coughing up. "You can't kill me when you can't even move."

Master seemed to regain his sense of awareness, eyelids fluttering before they opened ever so slowly. Gerring strained against the magic keeping him in place, wanting desperately to not witness the death of another boy as the room's occupants shuddered in horror. Disoriented, Master raised a limp hand, weakly curling twitching fingers into a fist as his gaze rolled. Finally, his hand dropped back into his lap, body still worryingly limp as he looked up to Stregobor. He gave a confused growl as his gaze hardened to a glare.

"You're a fiesty one," hummed Stregobor, staring right back. Gerring couldn't see his expression from his current position but judging from Ragnar and Letho's cold glowers it wasn't good.

"Am I?" Rasped Jaskier. A dark Quen wrapped around Stegobor, pulsing with enraged power. The room rippled in shock, the monster's the strongest of all as Master sat up from Letho and squeezed his Quen Sign tighter, fingers curling once more. Startled, Gerring realised he'd been testing if he could contort his hand to form a Quen when he'd flexed it earlier. Smart boy.

The monster writhed, shouting as his magic lashed against the sides of the shield Jaskier had inverted to keep him in. The man, only wearing a bloodied tunic, stood on legs that wobbled for all of a second and approached the monster with a deadly, _furious_ sneer.

"I should've killed you after Blaviken," hissed Master. His Quen squeezed harder but no matter how much Stregobor shifted or his magic churned, he couldn't break free. Gerring had only seen Jaskier this angry once before; after reuniting them at Ivar's death. He'd gone on to plan the fall of a Nation after that. He'd crushed that Nation.

"Should've," grunted the man again. His eyes gleamed the darkest amber Gerring'd ever seen, his free left hand twisting in the air to summon his medallion from the table top. Only then did Gerring realise nothing was out of place, all the furniture still in one piece - the black wave _had_ been an illusion. If a damn strong one, at that.

"Master," hastened Ragnar, twitching as the mage's grip over them lessened with each stunned moment. "Your medallion's still ladened with the curse-"

He looped it around himself anyway. It glowed the same blood red it had been earlier, when he'd been spitting up black goo and loosing too much blood, red flowing from his eyes like a never-ending stream of tears. This time, Master's eyes glowed red with it too. No blood came forth.

Master was channelling the curse's malevolence, twisting the directive to kill him into his own harvested power. It was an old technique, one Gerring himself hadn't seen in years. It hadn't been used in centuries namely because the magic was not only dangerous but also because it required an unholy amount of energy. Master was pulling it off though. Even if the curse had drained him earlier, he was showing no signs of it now.

The air seemed to thicken, a glooming aura forming around the medallion as it fed Master. He leaned forwards, snarling into a terrorfied smelling Stregobor's face. The mage stunk of fear, the stench so strong not even the Quen could withhold it, whilst Master radiated fury. The Quen around the mage shuddered, turning a sickening red as Stregobor began to convulse, his own curse being shot back at him so forcefully he couldn't fend it off.

"Will this time," Master seemed to promise, lips curling to reveal a sinister grin. For the split of a second, he looked so angry the border between furious and deranged blurred.

Then, the man-sized monster vanished, fleeing like the coward he was as his magic swallowed itself up like a black hole. Left with nothing to apply pressure to, the Quen seized in on itself and shattered. There was a stunned but relieved breath where everyone stumbled forwards from the lifting of the whoreson's magic. Master's right leg buckled.

Every Viper surged forth but Letho got there first, gripping Jaskier so he landed comfortably on the bald's own knee. Their Master sagged, a near limp hand wrapping around his own medallion. His eyes shuttered and when they opened once more, they were their usual amber. The room smelt of ozone, strong even over the waft of Master's blood. His anger had diminished, replaced by bone-weary exhaustion that left him pliant against Letho.

"Vial," he demanded. Ragnar scurried for the one beside the couch he'd been on earlier. It, miraculously, was in the same place he'd set it before. Their pseudo-medic pushed the uncorked glass into Master's hand as fast as was able. Letho grabbed the cork to hold beside him, not quite trusting Master to multitask after harnessing an ancient spell (spells that usually left the wielder drained beyond belief, even if they hadn't been hindered with a curse beforehand). Master didn't seem to mind as he gurgled up an old elven chant.

Feeling his arms quiver, Gerring stomped his way to the adjacent couch and dropped onto it, Maugrim settling in at an angle against the arm. Around him, the other Vipers, his brethren, did the same, sagging over themselves like they'd fought another war. It certainly felt like it.

They all watched as Master drew his hand forth, a steady stream of redish black connecting his index finger to his medallion. Carefully, he led the stream into the vial and filled it with a bubbling liquid. he stopped chanting, throat sounding raw.

The curse.

Master wiggled the cork from Letho's grasp and corked it before lighting the thing with an Igni. It burned, creating a high pitched shrieking noise that had a few boys shying back. Left with nothing in his hand, Master sighed raggedly and tipped fully back against Letho's torso. Obligingly, Letho rose, picking Jaskier up with him, and settled them both down onto the couch.

"Too much to ask for another Rafford's, Ragnar?" Master queried, voice rough but lightened by his pleased tone. Gerring could probably do with a boost himself.

"I agree," Letho grunted. "I'd like one."

Ragnar grumbled but caved when nearly all the younger boys chimed in for one. He shot Gerring a look, resigning himself to getting them a coffee - _"And nothing else!"_ \- each when the older man could only nod in assent. Caffeine would kill them slower but with the same results, he supposed.

"How'd that get to your medallion?" Asked Serrit when the mugs were passed around with cold water. It was left up to them to warm their own with an Igni, except for Master's whose was quietly warmed by Ragnar.

Master hurriedly gulped at his, seeming to revel in the energy burst it gave as his eyes flushed a soft amber. Gerring noted how he was still leaning heavily on Letho - but he, like the other boys, wouldn't mention it. They'd all seen the strain an ancient-era spell had on one's body. In the silence, Master hummed, blood-coated fingers tapping a sharp pointed tune on his half-full mug. "I haven't came into contact with anything, but seeing as our medallions are all linked by my stream it would make sense if one of you touched something and it spread to reach the target."

Tarviel seemed to fall in on himself. "I touched the medallion after getting stung by the magic," he admitted quietly. "When we were upholding the Quen, Stregobor's magic reached out and caught my fingers before I portalled us away."

"You had to," interjected Letho, running a scarred hand up Master's bicep as the older man shakily sipped at his beverage. "Or else we would've been dead."

Jaskier's eyes were open but it was impossible to tell who he was looking at as his gaze flickered around them all; too fast to track. His lips had thinned though, so Gerring readied for a possible rant.

He needn't have worried. Master merely shrugged.

"Don't worry about it," he said, bringing the room to a calmed peace. "I'll take a curse over losing two of my own."

Gerring felt that statement in his chest; knew that Jaskier meant it. He really would rather die from a cursed medallion than let his kin die. Feeling oddly warm, Gerring cleared his throat.

"You wouldn't happen to have those board games anymore, would you, Ragnar?"

"I'll do you one better, Gerring," grunted his brother. "I've got a stack of Gwent."

The kids brightened up, money instantly flowing as bets were placed. Gerring settled back and readied to bask in his win.

Lambert was capable of patience, contrary to popular opinion (as in, Yennefer, Coën and Vesemir; yeah, suck it). Sure, he could wait, but why bother when things just went so much quicker when he barreled ahead and got things done. Patience looked better on Eskel, just like grunting was Geralt's thing. No one asked them to change their ways, so why ask him?

So, yes, while he was perfectly able to wait, sitting in Geralt's new place, nursing a glass of his own vodka on fucking _house arrest_ was not his prime idea of practicing patience. Already he'd lost all his money to Eskel, who'd then lost it to Triss, who'd shared it with Yen and now not only was he poor, but also bored as fuck.

And he still didn't know why he wasn't allowed to leave.

Five hours ago, he'd been woken by two half-frantic Vipers rifling about the place. All's well that ends well, Lambert would usually say, but these kids - and shit, they _had_ looked like kids, no older than twenty the both of them (by mortal standards) - had threatened him before popping off with Triss' spare Wives' Tears potion. Okay, maybe they'd vaguely hissed in everyone's general direction before growling "If this is your doing, you'll pay" and told them not to go anywhere. Lambert had no fucking clue what they were talking about and they'd magicked themselves away before either Triss or Yen could read their minds but Geralt and Eskel were dead convinced it had something to do with why Jaskier had allegedly up and ran like a fucking man possessed.

Personally, Lambert didn't much care for the Viper - he'd had some good stories, albeit - but when it came down to it, the old guy wasn't a Wolf and so his worry just wasn't that pronounced. Maybe that was where he'd went wrong with Aiden, before he'd been killed. Triss did say he had trust issues.

How could he be blamed for those, though? They'd trusted the world once, trusted the grass to grow and the soil to produce wheat around Kaer Morhen but one year that hadn't worked and they'd been forced to travel down the mountains mid-winter for supplies. Once, witchers had held a certain degree of trust in the world. But that had been before peasants and a king had burnt down Kaer Morhen; before Stygga had been crushed by not just peasants but mercenaries too; before the Nilfgaardian cunt Usurper had tore down Gorthur Gvaed. It was history, and history (as per the humans' ways) always repeated, was doomed to. Lambert had paid attention to history, so sue him if he was cautious for the next turn. A turn that would probably be their last - one that would wipe out the few remaining witchers.

Good fucking riddance, he expected. Let the humans deal with the monsters for a change, Lambert reckoned.

The crude scent of magic flooded his nose, making him perk up. A slow curl of it gathered on the floor beside the island, where Jaskier had stood when he'd appeared, and circled. The ongoing game of Gwent between Yen, Geralt and Eskel paused, Triss looking up from her braiding of Geralt's hair. Lambert frowned at it, nursing his bottle in his lap. A bald headed man that was more of a personified mountain of muscle appeared, Jaskier held bridal style across his chest. The Master Viper was out cold, reeking of blood and apparently dressed in someone else's shirt and trousers if the bagginess of them meant anything. Baldie was looking down at Jaskier with a weird expression but snapped his head up to sneer at them all.

"What are you all doing?" He barked, amber eyes glinting in the late evening light. Despite the volume of his voice, Jaskier didn't even stir. Something like worry coiled in Lambert, making his shoulders tense. "Leave."

"Who're you to order us around, Sparkly?" Lambert growled back, standing. Triss was beside him in an instant, small lithe fingers curling around his bicep.

"Lambert, let's go," she said lowly, tugging at his arm. He looked up to see Yennefer offering a portal to Eskel. "C'mon."

"Nah," he snorted, pulling out of her grip and taking a threatening step towards Baldie and Jaskier. The Master Viper looked pale and washed-out in the guy's arms, weak too - although that could've been put on with how the guy was cradling him like he was a child. "Not 'til he tells us what the fuck's going on."

Baldie's forehead scrunched. "You- we had an incident."

"He looks like a lot more than an _incident_ happened to him," suggested Yennefer, negotiation with Eskel for the coin (the original lot stolen from lambert) paused for the time being.

Geralt stepped forwards, like he had a plan or something. He was frowning like he'd fallen into a cold puddle. "Letho," he said. "What happened to Jaskier?"

Lambert paused because holy hell this bald-ass motherfucking whoreson was Melitele-damned Letho of Gulet, assassinator of countless kings, favourer of northern wind bombs and the damn Viper's Second in Command.

"What's it to you?" Letho hissed, shifting Jaskier in his arms as the man's breathing pattern shifted towards distressed. "Master needs to rest, so if you all could get out-"

"Oh," snarled Lambert. "So we're allowed to leave now?"

There was a moment where everyone was silent and Lambert readied to pull his question off as an even snarkier joke in case he'd somehow fucked up through the information relay but then Letho of fucking Gulet _frowned_.

"Those kids say that, did they?" And then he sighed. "Apologies, Wolves, Sorceresses, any offence taken was not meant. We were dealing with a period of uncertainty."

"That period still ongoing?" Triss questioned.

"No," Letho muttered, moving from where'd he'd been stood. He shifted, turning towards the door into the hallway before pausing at it. It was closed. "Now if you could all return to your residences, Master would be grateful for the quiet. Wolf, come open the door."

"That's only half a story," he complained. Triss grabbed his arm before he could continue, waving goodbye to Yen as she pushed him through the portal she formed under him.

He landed on his front in the middle of their lounge, Triss appearing on her feet as she laughed down at him.

"Coffee, Lamb?" She offered. He grunted.

Geralt was a mass of worry at this point but he opened the door for Letho. Jaskier stunk of his own blood, smelt like he'd been drenched in it, was even wearing someone else's clothes. Letho looked worse for wear as he clutched him in a careful bridal hold, ever cautious of where Jaskier's head and legs were as he maneuvered him down the hallway into his room.

Jaskier's room wasn't what Geralt expected it to be but even then he wasn't sure what he expected it to look like. He opened the door and stepped in, sticking to the wall as Letho entered. There was a firm looking double-sized bare mattress (bare, spare for the protective sheet and pillows) in the corner of the room, where the best vantage point was, with the window right above it but at such a position that it would be hard for any projectiles to hit the person in bed. The walls were a soft grey, a wooden table tucked in a corner and overflowing with everything from stacks of papers to books. All over the walls were newspaper cuttings and magi notes (magic notes sent between people within their community), most detailing some event or celebration. To the far right was a broad wardrobe, the bottom drawer neatly pushed in whilst boxes sat piled high atop its roof. Everywhere, there were small but significant signs of who he was - a golden snake painted around the doorframe, head tilted so it looked as if it was watching over the bed; a backpack sitting in the corner where Geralt now stood, likely packed and ready for a quick getaway, should such a need come of it and there was probably more than one dagger stashed in the room, one definitely under the pillows.

Letho shook his head towards him, speaking quietly. "Get the blanket out of the laundry room, damn thing should be dry by now."

He left the room as quietly as possible, trusting Letho enough to not stab him in the back. Besides, it wasn't like the man was here for him or anything. Geralt eased into the laundry room, grabbing the only blanket there - grey too, what a surprise. It was lying folded up atop the dryer so it was quickly picked up, just in time for him to return to Jaskier's room to see Letho brush a few stray hairs from his face. He unfolded the blanket, offering an end to Letho so that they could lower it down onto Jaskier without waking him. Geralt tucked it in at the base of the bed whilst Letho wrapped it around Jaskier's pale form.

Done, Letho pulled the blinds over the window and stepped back, clutching his medallion like he meant to leave.

"Coffee?" Geralt whispered, tilting his head towards the door. Carefully, Letho shot him a look, glance shivering between him and Jaskier for a moment too long before he nodded. Letho turned on his heel and strode into the kitchenette with such familiarity Geralt wondered how many times he'd been in a position just like this.


	8. those who whisper in the night scream during the day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jas finds the jelly, ciri makes an appearance, roach is a bitch and letho is fucking horny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS : swearing, themes of depression/exhaustion, possible Emetophobia trigger, past injury, scarred men trying to live, minor sexual themes, mention of Stregobor, weapons referred to in a childish way as 'sparklies', mention of liquor, implied sexual themes in latter half,

He glanced up to the clock, noting how he'd slept in to two pm somehow. Jaskier hummed, throat still dry enough that it came out as more of a growl. He heaved himself into one of the barstool chairs to avoid the shame of falling over because his own two legs wouldn't stop shaking. The Wolf's gaze felt like molten magma running down his back.

"I'm making tacos," continued the boy. "Though there's other stuff in the fridge if you'd like."

Tacos. Jaskier had never had tacos before, except for that one time where Ilester decided he was a top-tier chef and tried to shove some half-raw mince down their throats and tried to call it some posh, flirtatious name with the excuse that it was 'all the rage' with the newer generation. That certainly hadn't stopped half of the Vipers present from coming down with a vicious case of food poisoning. Anyways, his throat wasn't quite up for anything too strenuous after his day spent vomiting.

He cast a sidelong look to the fridge. The Wolf caught on and stepped over to open it, showcasing what he'd bought.

Head resting in his palm, Jaskier took a moment to see if what he thought he was seeing was indeed _real_.

"Jelly," he grunted, slightly amused when Geralt lit up and hurried to bring him over a small child-sized pot. It was amber, a few shades lighter than Letho's eyes, and honey flavoured. A teaspoon quickly joined the selection before him. Jaskier figured he might as well try it, so peeled off the little foil lid.

It smelt _sweet_ and tasted as if someone had shoved cotton candy into his mouth, except the usually prickly and dry food was cold and watery in texture. He _liked_ it. Deeming it suitable, he nodded and continued to scoop up the slippery blobs onto his spoon. Geralt, smelling distinctly pleased (probably with himself), returned to his taco meat in the frying pan.

"Ciri wanted to know if she could come over today," started the Wolf, tone hesitant. Jaskier looked up from his little plastic pot and beckoned for the boy to speak. "She's bringing my cat round."

Jaskier looked up at that but found Geralt looking stiffly down at his meat. The boy's Child Surprise was probably going to drop by if Jaskier gave the go ahead or not, such was obvious, so he focussed on what he hadn't known. "You have a cat?"

"Yes," began the Wolf.

"Why didn't you bring her with you the first day?" His phone lit up on the counter so he snapped his fingers for it urgently. Geralt abandoned his food and pulled the thing from its charger, gently sliding it across the island. Feeling like deadweight, Jaskier slumped bodily over the island and poked at the screen with nimble fingers. "I like kitties."

"Do you?" Geralt asked, dishing up his meat onto a tortilla wrap. Instead of eating it, he covered the plate in saranwrap and nudged it off to the side. "She's the scratchy type."

It was a message from Letho: _feeling better?_

Jaskier internally fawned as he typed out a quick response.

_Just woke up. Thanks for the lift x_

"Oh," he said, a tad distracted with scooping up the rest of his jelly and hitting send on his text. "Of humans or the furniture?"

"Of people she doesn't like," answered the Wolf, taking Jaskier's empty jelly pot to dump it in the small recycling box that sat beside the bin in the cupboards.

"I'm sure we'll get along, what's her name?"

"Roach."

Jaskier looked up, watching as Geralt pulled out the box of grapes from the fridge. The boy plucked a few from their stems, offering a few to Jaskier with an eyebrow raise. He nodded back, eyes slipping back down to his phone as he got a responding text.

"After the fish?" He asked eventually, when he was typing out a response to Letho's _your puppy makes for stimulating conversation_ with wet fingers, courtesy of the bowl of washed grapes that now sat between the two of them. Geralt had settled down on the barstool beside him, a veritable radiator of heat. "Don't see you as the type to name a pet after a cockroach."

Geralt hummed.

_My puppy has a kitten,_ Jaskier sent because he wasn't too sure if he should be agreeing with his Second's sarcasm or arguing against it.

_just what you need, someone else to annoy._ Letho sent in turn.

Jaskier was in the middle of drying his fingers off on his trackies - stolen from Ragnar, because the man had demanded to wash his tunic - when Geralt cleared his throat.

"What?" he demanded into the waiting silence.

"It's Ciri's birthday next week. She's hosting a ball. Would you come?"

In response to Geralt's unsure tone and hopeful pitch, Jaskier tilted his head. "A ball? Ah, she's a Queen nowadays. Would you like me to come?" And then, just to make things awkward - as he so loved - he added, "I'm sure your hands would be enough."

Waiting for the red cheeks and spluttering, Jaskier leaned into Geralt's space, fluttering his eyelashes in the way Letho bemoaned of him being a tease. But the sight of an awkward Geralt never came, as the boy leaned in too, until his breath ghosted Jaskier's scarred jaw and smirked at him, lips inches from his.

"I'm sure they would," agreed the Wolf.

Jaskier's heartrate seemed dull in his ears as Geralt's hand dropped, rough fingers trailing a soft path along his thigh. Seconds later there was a knock at the door.

"That's nice," mused Geralt, still tantalizingly close. "She doesn't usually knock."

The Wolf backed off to go open the door and Jaskier was left with a quivering leg and an out of sync pulse. He needed to suck in a low breath - in which he quickly texted Letho _meet tonight at your bar?_ \- before turning to greet the fucking Queen that was at his door.

Cirilla was a nice girl. A bit creepy, maybe, but she was the Child Surprise of a witcher so that diminished some of the usual awkward tense feeling that people got when he met them. Geralt had been the one to bring up the ball.

"So," started the Wolf, Jaskier only barely able to tune into the conversation as he wrestled with ferocious little Roach on the couch in a bid to sit down. Cirilla and Geralt had sat down beside each other on the longer stretch, leaving Jaskier on the shorter bit adjacent to them. "Your party's at the end of this week, right?"

They must've shared some meaningful look because when Jaskier finally got Roach's claws away from his face and retuned into the talk, they were both staring at him. Geralt's look was more expectant whereas the girl was grinning - wide enough to the point where Jaskier was questioning her mental state.

"You'll be coming as Geralt's plus one?" Beamed the girl. "Brilliant. I've a few suits I could send over, if you'd like."

Jaskier had realised then that he wasn't getting out of it. _Well damn,_ he decided. If he was going to spend the evening in some stuffy room he'd wear what he wanted to wear.

"I should have a few good dresses," he waved off, keen nose picking up on the burst of arousal from the boy. "What day is it on?"

"Tuesday next week," Ciri smiled. She didn't seem particularly fazed at his dress comment but she'd definitely gotten more excited about her ball. "From three to whatever time it ends."

"There'll be alcohol?" He pressed.

Ciri curled a finger around Roach's ears as the bay coloured cat slunk towards her. "The table selection will be normal for the humans there, but I'm sure Lambert will bring his own stash."

That had him pausing. Jaskier disliked crowds, hated the noise and the stench they carried with them. He despised humans most of all; them and their sickening curdle of sweat and emotions. "How many'll be there?"

"Only a few hundred," the girl waved off, as if Jaskier even had a few hundred associates. "Most of them will be from my Court, Nobles and the such, but all the Wolves will be there."

A high society event was too much for Stregobor to risk an attack. Even then, Jaskier was half sure he'd scared the man off for more than a few months after his curse rebound. No doubt, there would be security there, but the addition of two other witchers helped sooth his conscience. He could easily stick a few daggers in the dress, too. He liked his sparklies.

Satisfied, he asked, "Is there a colour scheme?"

The two before him grinned like the wolves they were.

"Look pretty," Ciri winked.

"Am I pretty?" Came a familiar voice from behind him. Letho turned his head to find Jaskier, loose jeans and a dark leather jacket, standing in the walk-space between his booth and the next. For show, he looked the man up and down, casually nursing his beer back and forth.

"I suppose," he said, after another knock back, both of them fully knowing he meant _fuck yes, you're beautiful._ Jaskier slid into the place opposite and flagged down a waiter with a brisk motion. "Someone say otherwise?"

Letho would string them up from their intestines and teach the fucker the meaning of ugly, be damned whoever it was. He just hoped it wasn't the Wolf - that guy was half decent. Even if their entire coffee conversation had consisted of grunts and low 'hmm's. The guy had growled at Stregobor's name, had nodded along when Letho had said Jaskier needed rest, and that change in attitude had made Letho consider the possibility of not everyone left in their community being a total dick (outside of his Vipers).

"No," hummed Jaskier, never Master during these meetings. The waitress scurried over to them, breathy and light footed with her fear, and the conversation paused as he ordered a beer and a plate of fries. When the girl wobbled away, he continued. "I've been invited to the Queen's birthday bash."

Letho struggled to swallow his beer without choking. "Which Queen?"

"The boy's Surprise, Cirilla."

"The Lioness Queen of Cintra invited you to her birthday ball?" Idly, he wondered how much a ball would cost to host. Definitely more than this dump, that was for sure. All Letho had to for this place was make sure the fridges were stocked along with the barrels. And pay the workers a decent wage. Planning a ball would take more effort than Letho would give.

"Of course," nodded Jaskier, as if he accepted these invites daily and not every odd century or so. "I'll wear a nice dress, strap in a few sparklies and- oh."

Once more the conversation paused for the waitress. The girl set Jaskier's beer so gently in front of him as if any sound over three decibels would irritate him. The plate was set in the middle of the small table, as it always was. Quietly, the waitress murmured her well wishes and turned to scurry off again.

Jaskier caught her sleeve. The entire bar, used to Jaskier's presence bringing some sort of entertainment, paused and quieted - mainly because people knew who he was and had a modicum of respect, if even two for self-preservation. The girl swallowed a squeak in her throat and turned shimmering eyes to Jaskier.

"Sir?"

"What does Letho pay you for if you can't even look him in the eyes, hmm?" Jaskier tilted his head to the right, a threatening tic that screamed his annoyance. He plucked a twenty from his pocket and slipped it into the girl's quivering fingers, patting them closed. She reeked of fear, the sharp tang of lemon only increasing at the extra physical contact. "I'm sure you know how to serve people, so do it _right._ Go in the back, get yourself a drink and come back when you're feeling better."

Jaskier let go of her and leaned back, posture once more relaxed as he took a draw from his bottle. His eyes shone gold in the dim lighting of their usual corner. The waitress shook in her shoes.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." With that, she bowed low and fluttered off.

"You could at least train your people, Letho," Jaskier scolded, plucking a fry from the steep pile to munch on. "I know a few werewolves that would gladly take her hand if she were to slip up with them."

"There is a reason why I've got higher vampires on the door and bar," Letho reminded. "Can't run an Ancient's bar without 'em."

Scowling at the name, Jaskier rolled his eyes. "What of your messages, got any more?"

He fought the urge to writhe in shame. "No."

"Good," noted the man, gaze wandering over the people present. The bar was decently full tonight, most sitting at the tables instead of the wall-hugging booths. Of course, there was a wide berth around them, because people didn't want to risk getting their tongues cut off for eavesdropping on the Grandmaster Viper's conversation. "Good."

Taking into consideration Jaskier's absentminded hum, Letho pushed the topic further. "Tarviel's bunking with Pietr. Serrit warded the place and they're on orders to stay put for the few days it takes to solidify them."

"Mmhm," Jaskier plopped another fry into his mouth, still not looking at him. His fingers curled into a loose clench, subconsciously yearning for a dagger.

Letho took a few fries for himself. "Ragnar'll be wanting his clothes back."

"Mine now," said Jaskier, finally tuning back in as his eyes flickered to meet Letho's. "He shouldn't have dressed me all up."

"And what?" Letho laughed. "Left you to be carried back naked? The gall you have to defeat Stregobor with no underwear on."

Jaskier shrugged, although it was more of a shoulder roll. "Didn't wear underwear for years. Nobody harangued me for it then."

"You weren't getting covered in blood back then."

"Don't be modest," the man clicked his tongue; a disapproving glint in his eyes. Letho reeled himself back in, reminding himself Jaskier was tired and his mood was more fickle than usual. "Even when I stayed at Gvaed there were monsters to deal with daily."

Instead of being chased off, Letho grabbed another few fries and finished off his beer. He raised his hand for another and saw Kerro from the bar immediately surge forth. Pleased at how attentive some of the people he paid were, he turned back to brace Jaskier's glower head on. "Saw Ivo the other day," he started.

"Of Belhaven?"

He nodded, grinning sharply at Kerro when the man swapped out his empty glass for a full one. The man nodded back, silently gesturing to Jaskier's half-empty glass. Jaskier waved him off. Kerro retreated with a low-swept bow. Man didn't speak much after he'd had his tongue clawed out by a werewolf one bad moon.

"When was this?" Jaskier asked suddenly.

"Few months ago," he said.

The disbelieving look he got was worth remembering the growling match he'd had with the bastard Bear witcher.

"Since when does a few months' worth translate to the other day?" Hissed Jaskier but there was no venom in his tone.

"Since Auckes decided it would be funny to shave Gerring's beard," Letho answered. The other man looked at him as if he'd grown a second head.

"Gerring hasn't had a beard in centuries."

"Shows how behind you are," Letho chuffed, sipping at his cool beer. Kerro had poured a healthy dose of vodka into it - damn good man. Deciding Jaskier had lightened up enough, he motioned to the plate of fries that sat half eaten. "You still up for...?"

Letho watched Jaskier hesitate, then lean back further into the plush booth cushions as if the back could swallow him up. "Dunno," he said eventually, after a long gulp from his glass that finished it off. "Was earlier but..."

He trailed off. Letho nodded. It wasn't like either of them were forced into doing this - it was a consensual arrangement they'd brokered on together - and it was almost just as easy to go pick someone else up afterwards, if one of them wasn't up for the _afters_ that usually came after the drinks and food. Albeit, it was usually Jaskier who was iffy on the sex, but Letho didn't mind. He certainly wouldn't make his brother's life hard by bringing it up, so bi-monthly they met and maybe half of those times they fucked and the other half they didn't - it was as simple as that.

"Don't worry 'bout it," he assured. "Want another drink?"

An excessive amount of alcohol later, gracing numbers sober Letho would be scowling at, Jaskier was tugging him to his feet, a hand on his bicep, gorgeous long eyelashes fluttering coyly the whole time. Letho let himself be pulled up, lips splitting apart in wait for what he knew he was getting, and welcomed the low voice Jaskier murmured at him with.

"Your place," suggested his elder. "Unless you wanna let the pretty Wolf watch us?"

Voice growling to match his attentive loins, Letho ducked his head the slightest and tilted his nose to nuzzle Jaskier, brushing down into his neck to suck in a calming breath of buttercups and rosin spice. The few remaining customers in the bar knew better than to look, or make a fuss, mostly because they all liked living somewhat and didn't have the guts to defy that instinct, even whilst drunk. "You sure _you_ want the Wolf to watch?"

With a hum, Jaskier caught himself on and pulled a hand up to clutch Letho's medallion, long warm fingers digging under his shirt from the bottom hem up. Letho welcomed the closeness, piping down the pleased rumble whilst they were still in public as those clever fingers ran along his muscles, burning a path up to the metal chain.

"Aren't I vampish?" Giggled Jaskier, back to using long out of date words as he usually did when drunk. Those fingers of his released the chain, shooting up to curl around Letho's neck for all of a moment, making him jump in his jeans.

With an appreciative groan, muffled into Jaskier's skin, Letho agreed. "Quite the piece of work, you are."

"Good," Jaskier breathed. "Have to make you work for something this pulchritudinous."

Letho struggled on a laugh, face still buried in the shawl of Jaskier's hair. "That's a new word."

"I do believe it's quite old," Jaskier mollified. "For I remember the peasants of the eight hundreds speaking as such."

"That so?" Letho grunted, leg rising to push up against Jaskier's legs. A burst of satisfaction filled him as the other man's legs spread easily for him, letting his thigh rub up against him. Jaskier's pupils burst wide. "How 'bout we leave, pretty thing?"

"Mmh," Jaskier agreed, right leg quivering as he jutted towards him, grinding down as hard as Letho's own bent posture would allow. The older man's hands fluttered under Letho's shirt and the bald man realised he'd have to be the one to summon the medallion's portal.

With a faint huff of amusement - but mainly arousal, because Jaskier rocked up against him in a sudden jerk - Letho pushed aside a flap of the leather jacket and twined a finger through its chain. He saw the image of his old hamlet bungalow's bedroom and called on the magic to get them there.

"Medallion: Nineteen."

The raging blizzard they fell into was definitely not his bungalow. With a hard grunt, Letho lost balance and pulled Jaskier down with him, the other man's bad leg hitting the ice cold snow with a sharp click. Only just managing to not possibly concuss himself on the cold layer of snow, Letho made sure his grip on Jaskier was secure and blinked.

Out of everything, from the blinding white and ear piercing howl of the winds, the coldness hit him first, instantly chilling him to the bone despite how witchers were mutated to survive longer in conditions like these than any other living being.

"What number'd you say?" Jaskier snarled, sprawled over Letho's front like a rag doll. The older man pushed himself up long enough to get snowflakes in his hair and eyelashes before hunkering back down and wrapping an iron vice grip around what he could hold of Letho's bicep. "This is Sixteen, what the fuck?"

Sixteen was the mountain where Ivar Evil-Eye's memorial had been built, as per the man's wishes. It was far North, amidst the Manticores' territory but just outside of it as to not incur their wrath. Letho knew Jaskier visited it somewhat religiously, probably more than the rest of the boys combined, but who was Letho to judge others' coping mechanisms. Out of all of them, Jaskier had been closest to Master Ivar. He'd also been the one to see him die.

Other than that, the mountain was well over sea level, by well past eight thousand feet, and it was also about half the Continent too far away from Letho's little secluded seaside, South shore bungalow.

"Coulda sworn I said my place," he growled back, words a near shout to be heard over the wind, even with them at each others chest.

"Yeah, well it ain't," Jaskier snapped, looking damn prepossessing as a few more snowflakes landed on his lashes. Letho felt his dick stir at the sight, so urged along the current predicament with a light elbow tap. Jaskier frowned down at him but he rolled his eyes all the same, grabbing his own medallion with a tight grip, fingers brushing Letho's. "Fine, I'll do it."

"Medallion: Nineteen."

Expecting to fall on his bed at best, maybe luscious sands or -worst case scenario - his kitchen floor, Letho braced himself. What he was not ready for was the medallion's magic to circle them once, then flicker out with an almost confused shake. Jaskier's eyes would've been wide had the weather allowed it, as it was the wind picked up to a hectic blur and they were both forced to squint. Past the near whiteout, Jaskier looked ready to bite someone's head off.

"What!" He barked, shrill scream a near whisper against the blizzard they were in. The mountain was more than easy to get off, no magic barriers or wards keeping them in after they arrived, and they'd know if something had been created. As far as Letho could tell, nothing was different from the past few times he'd been here. Except for the blizzard, of course.

"Try mine," Letho offered, slightly shivering as those coal hot fingers flew from Jaskier's chest to under Letho's shirt. Warm fingers wrapped around his medallion. Letho braced himself.

"Medallion: Nineteen!"

Hard ground swam up to meet him, knocking the air out of Letho even as he rolled on his tiled kitchen floor to avoid Jaskier's knee from taking the brunt of his fall. The resounding click and sharp intake of breath proved he wasn't quite successful in his endeavour. Lying awkwardly on his side, Jaskier held tightly to him, Letho sucked in a lungful of tangy sea air and slowly eased his free hand up to Jaskier's neck, curling at his nape. The other man didn't seem to mind himself being pulled closer under Letho's chin so Letho secured Jaskier's right leg and rolled himself onto his back, Jaskier still held against him. The sight of his kitchen was an assuring one, even if it was a tad blurred from the snowflakes cluttered on his lashes. Quietly, he brushed a hand over Jaskier's mane (not quite ready to face the tangles that would be through it after their little adventure), feeling the snow melt under his palm.

"Still up for a little commercing?" He goaded.

"Gimme a min," Jaskier huffed, eyes fluttering open for all of a second before he tucked himself tighter against Letho's torso.


	9. reaching for something more than a feeling of being important

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jas is having a lazy week, gerrings grumpy as always, geralts along for the ride, ragnars nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: swearing, mention of exhaustion, possible themes of depression, past injury, implied nightmare, threatening but well meaning behaviour implied, brief Emetophobia mention (not of it but a triggering aspect), panic attack, brief disassociation, minor destruction of property thanks to cat, mention of death and witcher contracts, possible albeist slur that slipped past (sorry),
> 
> Please tell me if I missed anything

The week upcoming to the Wolf's Child Surprise's party was sparse. Jaskier mainly resigned himself to sleeping, finding himself on a spectacular energy crash on the day after his shenanigans with Letho. He brought up the issue of his medallion being fucked up (in Letho's words) with Gerring and was graced with the older man's glorious presence on the Thursday evening, when Geralt had wandered off for a hunt. Unfortunately, the man had only stayed for a few minutes, portalling out by Jaskier's own medallion despite his warning.

The barrage of texts he got not an hour later suggested the man had fallen into Serrit's lounge, at Fifty-Three, rather than the Keep's den. Jaskier had taken one lazy swipe at them and rolled back over in his bed. He _had_ warned the man, after all.

Ragnar appeared sporadically, making sure he was being fed - to the extent of threatening the boy, who'd been doing nothing _but_ feed him. But other than his brooding presence in the corner of Jaskier's room, nose buried in a book or medical journal of some sort, Jaskier hadn't seen much of him. Aside from when he was waking him up to shove a cup of 'healing' herbal tea down his throat that had tasted more like shit than shit itself did.

On a good note, he'd regained some of his usual energy come Friday. The Wolf had been pleased to see him up, even if he had only relocated to the couch to watch Netflix. It seemed Roach was now a common presence in the apartment, and they'd found common ground over an approval of jelly and the newest remake of Lost in Space. He'd run out of jelly three hours into the second series and had kicked Geralt out to go buy more. At least the boy hadn't seemed to mind.

Saturday rolled round and Jaskier woke in his usual cold sweat and discovered he hadn't picked anything out for the fucking _royal ball_ he was attending.

"Fuck," he grunted, narrowly missing booting Roach off his bed as he rolled onto the floor in a clatter of limbs. The rat of a bay watched him as he knocked his knee off the one sole floorboard that had a sharp jut in it and - he swore - meowed smugly as he limped to the door.

Annoyed, he glowered at her and slammed the bedroom door in her face as she leapt off the bed to follow him. Let her stay inside if she was going to be a bitch, he reasoned. She knew she'd get booted out the window if she so much as _scratched_ anything of value. The boy may let her get away with treason but Jaskier would not.

Speak of the devil: Jaskier was barely two steps from his bedroom door when Geralt burst through the hallway door, eyes widening the slightest at seeing him.

"Should you be up?" Asked the boy, having become more conversational with him than he had before. Jaskier figured it was a trust thing, and hadn't pushed. Now he was wishing he had it if would give him a damn moment of peace.

Still irate after dealing with Roach, Jaskier grunted at the white haired man and made for the bathroom.

Geralt loomed in the hallway, letting him go without a fight. "You want breakfast? I'll make you a fry."

"Jelly," he replied, stopping in his crusade to deliver his monosyllabic point. Jaskier felt wobbly but it was nothing holding onto the bathroom door didn't fix.

Geralt frowned lightly. "Ragnar said no."

"Ragnar's not here," he reminded him, having lived for centuries ignoring the man's warnings. There was a suspicion in the Viper betting pool that Ragnar didn't mean half the stuff he 'prescribed' and was instead trying to make their lives equivalent to that of living in hell. Last he'd checked, Auckes had big money on it. Ilester was insistent it was only because the man was paranoid - like the rest of them, so no biggie there. Jaskier's take on it was a clean fifty-fifty.

"Geralt," he growled when the boy hesitated too long. "I'll feed myself."

"Eating jelly isn't feeding yourself," protested the Wolf.

Jaskier sighed. His head thumped with the action. Why was it so hard to weasel out a pot of jelly and go back to bed? Who had forsaken him this time?

"The ball is in three days," mentioned Geralt, sounding worried. "Are you- Will you-?"

He trailed off. Jaskier focused his attention on opening the bathroom door. Halfway through, he stopped and offered the boy a quirk of the lips.

"I know. I'll pick a dress out tonight."

Shutting the door behind him, Jaskier stood in the bathroom until Geralt closed the door at the end of the hallway. Satisfied, he peeled off his sleeping shirt and reached over to turn on the shower. A dizzy spell hit him, the nauseating feeling not doing him any good as the thick scent of lavender hit him head on.

He ended up washing himself sitting down. The water was cold from his distance but his chest felt colder.

Ten minutes later, he was stumbling out after taking an unbelievably long time for him to shower - he was just thankful Geralt hadn't been with him long enough to realise what was long and what was _too long_. Dazed from the lavender and blood rush to his head from standing for too long, he emerged into the main room, dressed in leggings and what he was half certain was one of Letho's old shirts, and thumped right into Ragnar's chest.

It took him a moment to not reel back like a skittish child and when he didn't, he looked into the other man's amber eyes. Ragnar wasn't impressed.

"What's this about jelly?" Asked the Viper, moustache twitching down with his frown.

Jaskier felt the irritation bubble under his skin like a rat waiting for the mouse to pounce on the trap so it could get the cheese. The feeling swirled, digging into his muscles and making him feel clammy, weak almost. Faced with a disappointed face, all he could see was Ivar - screaming down at him, _protect_ \- he felt the world sway - Elsiben was thrown at him - the ground rushed to meet him - he bounced off the hard rocky sides of the hollow and only barely fell in one piece - his leg ached, his chest was tight - the stone under him buckled, the army overhead roared in victory, Elsiben caught the light and glimmered in the dark gloom, his precious sparkling blade, _precious_ -

"Breathe with me," there was a hand on his chest. Ragnar's scent around him, cedarwood and pine. A soothing, familiar voice. A chest beside him, taking big deep breaths whilst urging him to copy. Jaskier didn't like copying people, didn't want to pretend to have something that wasn't his; he hissed, tried to back off but a hand caught him. The voice became a lullaby and he could breathe.

"That's it, easy goes," Ragnar was murmuring when he opened his eyes again. He was, indeed, on the floor, clutched against Ragnar's chest like a puppet with its strings cut. Jaskier felt like his bones had turned to mush. A hand carded through his hair, ever so gentle. "You back with us, big guy?"

Sometimes it was hard to believe Ragnar was at least two centuries younger than him, like most of the boys.

Feeling his eyelids droop, Jaskier mustered up a grunt and no more. Thankfully, Ragnar understood him well enough and picked him up easily, carrying and depositing him on the couch gently. The blanket he'd been using for his Netflix sessions was wrapped around him as Ragnar assured himself that Jaskier was securely nestled in the niche of the couch.

"There we go," Ragnar nodded, hand holding the remote as he flicked through Netflix. Casually, he asked, "You hungry?"

Jaskier could've held out in the waiting game but at the end, he was hungry now. He caved. "Yes."

"You were making something, Wolf?" Called Ragnar, finally settling on some eighties tv series that looked out of place amidst Netflix's newer selection. "I doubt he's been up this early yet this week so go light, don't want to overwhelm his stomach."

Entertainment picked, Ragnar rocked in beside him and pulled a flap of the grey blanket around himself because he knew the protocol for one of Jaskier's rare panic attacks. If touch wasn't viable or being accepted, closeness was the alternative.

"A fry good?" Geralt grunted, pulling Jaskier's gaze for a second. Ragnar voiced his agreement as Jaskier looked over to the clock. It was eight am; Ragnar was right, he hadn't woken earlier than this since his crash. Fuck, he was tired. He kept his eyes open long enough for Ragnar to shove a few bites of sausage down his throat before Jaskier lost his thread.

He woke to Geralt sitting down beside him, a bowl of grapes in his clutch. Ragnar was gone, the tv was broadcasting the news. Jaskier felt cold despite the blanket and the ball of fluff that was Roach on his lap. His neck was a hair away from developing a nasty cric. Strewn out over the couch, he felt light.

"You up for eating anything?" Geralt murmured, swimming into view beside him, large hand a reassuring pressure on Jaskier's elbow. With a huff of air, Jaskier got his shit together and flopped a little closer to the Wolf. Ragnar had probably left because he'd had an appointment with a human or because he'd seen fit to do so. Roach made a grumbling sound at him, likely having taken advantage of Geralt's sopping heart to get out of the bedroom. She narrowed her eyes at him and kneaded the blanket a little, long tail shifting back and forth.

"What happened to the fry?" He questioned, quite sure he'd left nearly a full plate.

Geralt said, "Ragnar ate it."

That sounded like Ragnar - a younger version, maybe but Ragnar all the same. Jaskier hummed in the back of his throat and swiped a finger over Roach's ears. She looked pleased and her eyes returned to their normal wide look of curiosity.

"He said something about 'wear the green'?" Geralt added, tone lilting into confused.

Jaskier smirked. Evidently, Ragnar now knew about the ball - his entire fucking family probably did by now, knowing how gossip travelled. The green was a green dress, with a long slip cut out of the left-side leg. It was tailored for him, meaning there was plenty of room in it for his precious sparklies (cough, _blades_ , cough) and the dress looked light and shimmery. With some decent mascara and lipstick, he could make fully grown men weep for him. Although, Jaskier usually did that without a dress.

"He say anything else?"

"Said you're a stubborn bastard who needs to eat more than jelly," the boy relayed, completely straight faced. Jaskier grumbled under his breath but felt himself settle against the Wolf's shoulder. The boy had a decent amount of muscle, as much as was expected of a Wolf witcher, and though he didn't weigh up to Letho's bulk (which was, admittedly, unusual for a Viper), his arm was comfortable enough. Jaskier looked forward to hanging off it on Tuesday.

A thought popped into his head. "Should I get your Surprise a present?"

Geralt hummed.

"That's a thing nowadays, I'm sure. Gifting. What did you get her?"

"Yen helped me pick out a magic bracelet," the boy said. "Don't worry about it, we can gift it as a joint present."

"Are you sure?" His chest felt oddly warm at the offer, even if he wasn't sure why. "I _can_ get her something."

The Wolf chuckled, the sound pleasing as it echoed through his muscle to Jaskier. "Next time, you can. Right now you're on prescribed rest."

"Letho would go shopping, if I asked." Even if he disliked it, the darling.

Geralt offered him a grape. Mindlessly, Jaskier opened his mouth for it. The gentleness with which Geralt popped it into his mouth was enough to make a priest bawl. Silently pleased, he tugged the blanket further around himself and held an arm out for Roach to curl up in his lap. The Wolf changed the tv channels as Jaskier fell into the prime mindset for meditation. Calm and relaxed, he let his mind drift.

He opened his eyes to a soft bang. At some point he'd slipped forwards, so his head was pillowed on Geralt's thigh. The blanket was pulled up to his shoulder, his body curled on the couch. Jaskier blinked to reorient himself and _Melitele_ did Geralt have nice thighs.

"Roach," scolded the younger man. The cat was sitting on the coffee table, gaze smug. She'd knocked a bowl onto the floor. Geralt batted at her, body barely moving despite his actions. "This isn't Ciri's place anymore, you have to clean up your own messes now. Jaskier won't be happy when he surfaces to find a bowl shattered on his floor."

"S'fine," he managed, pushing himself out so he was stretching over Geralt's lap. His back clicked nicely, not painful like when his leg did, and he let out a relieved sigh. Geralt's hand found its way to his hair, fingers threading through easier than his own did. The syrupy scent of Geralt's worry faded, replaced by something sweet. "There's a basic cleaning spell active, say it in elven and it'll be good as new."

The Wolf did. The bowl reformed itself beside a spooked looking Roach. With his new position over Geralt's legs, Jaskier focused his eyes on the tv. He didn't recognise whatever he was watching but it was probably on Netflix.

"Can I braid your hair?"

The question caught him off guard. Jaskier blinked, head turning too quick as he moved to look up at the Wolf. Instead of making the situation a shitshow and pulling out half his scalp, Geralt's hand moved with his head, until he was cradling Jaskier's head. They both blinked at each other.

"It's dirty," Jaskier spluttered.

"I've seen much worse," assured the Wolf. "Do you not want me to? It's alright if you don't."

Jaskier took a moment to scent for annoyance, or something like hatred, but all he smelt was the damn smokey fire scent of the boy's contentment. He was being honest. He really did just want to braid his hair, no strings attached. In a burst of energy, he sat up, Geralt's hand easily falling away, and shuffled over so that he forced Geralt's legs apart. Sitting in the Wolf's lap, he tugged at his legs, successfully making the man sit cross-legged without having to outright state it. Satisfied with his accomplishments, Jaskier leaned back against the other, making sure not to lean down somewhere specific accidentally and purposefully flicked his hair over his shoulder so it swung in front of Geralt.

There was a moment of stillness. Roach watched them both warily.

"Well?" He urged. "Aren't you going to braid it?"

Geralt huffed a laugh. "Am I going to regret this?"

"Of course not," he chided, feeling himself relax - shoulders slumping to a degree they hadn't in years. Happily surprised, he beckoned Roach into his lap and began petting her as Geralt's hands began to weave through his hair.

Not used to people touching his hair like this - Letho liked to run his fingers over it but that was different - Jaskier found himself surprised when he actually enjoyed it. Geralt managed to pull his hair into strands without actually tugging harshly or doing anything unsavoury. Jaskier was well over fourteen hundred years old and not once had someone else, nevermind a witcher, braided his hair. It was... nice.

The sun began to fall, long warm shadows flowing over the coffee table as the sky blushed pink. Roach, restless, leapt from his lap and swirled over to the wall-length window, body brushing up against it as she peered down at the street below. The corner of Qvinin the apartment was in was in the quiet side of the city, a place of relative solitude but where it was still loud enough that the smell of liquor rose up at night and bar fights three blocks over woke Jaskier at night. At first, he'd hated this apartment with his entire being: it had been a sign the boys were tiring of him and his silent stories that couldn't make it past his mouth. In the first few months, fresh out of Gorthur Gvaed for the first time possibly since her fall, Jaskier had stuck out the cracks in the walls and the dingy small window that stared at him like a worn out ornament.

Maybe he'd found solace. Maybe the dismal state of the place had plucked a heart string, or maybe triggered a hernia. Whatever it was, after three months of staring at the sad off-blue painted wall, he'd finally had enough. The amount of magic he'd used to renovate the place was unholy but he'd always had an affiliation for chaos, even before he'd known the name for it. Jaskier had been making flowers bloom as a child before half the Continent even knew what chaos was. Being augmented as a witcher had made it more easy to wield the power without drawbacks, because the Signs simply channelled the chaos from the earth through them and elven magic was focused more on the magic simply changing forms than a payment being given by the user.

That was were the humans had gone wrong; thinking chaos needed something in turn. Bodies had never been offered to chaos before the humans, they had been the ones to make it hunger for pain. The bugs of the land had cursed chaos and that was one of the largest factors for the elven wars.

The cat returned to his lap, curling leisurely between his legs. Geralt's hold was good, his thighs like barriers behind Jaskier with his calves at his front like large boulders. It reminded Jaskier of years ago, when there was still taverns and inns and humans had feared them yet still refused to pay, he'd found a cave once, near the coast. In that cave, there had been a small pool, harmless but ever so clean - he'd bathed in it, safe and secure, surrounded by rocks and ferns, firm and warm like Geralt was now. Later in the night, he had very nearly been murdered by a group of sirens and once more he'd sought out the pool; finding it to have a soft healing chime of chaos within it that activated come a full moon. He'd been lucky the pool had healed him, or else he would be missing his left arm and his intestines.

His hair was braided, the Wolf having finished long ago but running his fingers through the loose ends in a pretense of doing something. Jaskier didn't mind.

"Any talk, Wolf?"

"What?" Grunted Geralt. His fingers stilled for a moment too long so Jaskier knocked his head back so his hair shifted in his grip and reminded him of his actions.

"Gossip," he said as the Wolf went back to curling his hair around his fingers. "Surely you hear _something_ from your lot."

The Wolf grunted. They sat in silence as Netflix cued up the next episode in a series neither of them were really watching.

"Is it true a Viper took on a contract against a leshen for twelve coin?" Geralt eventually asked.

"Funny," Jaskier mused, idly petting Roach. "I'd heard it was a Crane out of their element."

"Lambert made a point of keeping up with this stuff on the Path. He said it could only have been a Viper."

"Ruled out all the others, hmm?" Jaskier shrugged, shoulder bone rising to graze the boy's fingers. The contact grounded him abruptly, startling a jerk out of him. He covered it up as best he could by grabbing Roach around her middle and dangling her over the coffee table in a sudden playful fit. She gazed at him untrustingly as her claws came out for an abortive swipe that narrowly missed flesh before she wriggled from his grasp. Roach strutted off, down through the hallway's open door and Jaskier relaxed back like she'd been the cause of his twitchiness. Geralt said nothing. "It could've been one of mine. Any timeframe?"

"Early eleven hundreds," sounded like one of the three younger boys. They would've been in their twenties back then. Of course, it could've as easily been someone that wasn't with them now.

"Younger boys," Jaskier said vaguely, mood soured at the reminder of death that seemed to follow them all. "I'll ask around when I see them again."

A build of magic circled by the island counter. Geralt's gaze snapped there for all of a second before Gerring appeared, dressed in a leather shirt that looked like it had seen better days. The man nodded to Jaskier, eyes narrowing at the Wolf.

"Master," said the man. He clutched Jaskier's medallion in his hand, striding over in a few quick strides to hand it to him. "It should be fixed."

"Should be?" He hummed, carefully running a finger between the gem eyes. She felt rougher, her metal a tad heavier. "What did you do?"

Gerring watched keenly as Jaskier slipped the chain around his neck, pulling his hair out of its way carefully. The braid the Wolf had done was satisfactory, so he magicked up a hair bobble and tied it off. With any luck it was leave his hair wavy enough that he would only need to wash it for the ball. Gods, he was getting lazy.

"Refined her a bit, had Serrit come by to pick at the gems," explained Gerring, still ominously glaring at Geralt, who stared back. "The chain was breaking so I replaced it."

"Dip her in honey again, did you?" He smirked. The other man liked to dip nearly everything in some charmed honey he'd bargained off the druids. It allegedly had healing and protective properties but it hadn't helped Jaskier before - nowadays it was more of a bemusement that the man still did the ritual. Too much time alone, most of the boys reckoned.

Gerring sighed. "How the hell can you smell that? I even asked Serrit and the boy said it smelt more like raspberries."

Jaskier sniffed at his medallion. There was the lightest tinge of raspberries, barely there past the bone-deep trail of nightshade on his own hands. "He must've ate some. You ought to know better than to ask him, Gerring."

"Alright, alright. Not all of us can live up to your impeccable standards," he joked. Gerring shifted towards him as Roach appeared, coiling around his feet. He sounded impressed when he snorted. "You got a cat?"

"She's mine," grunted Geralt, fingers twitching a soothing rhythm on Jaskier's hip. He hadn't asked him to move or anything and Jaskier felt oddly pleased by this. He was comfortable.

Gerring crouched to pet her. Roach snapped a claw at him and scurried up to nose at Geralt's thigh, seemingly not yet having forgiven Jaskier for his earlier show. "She got a name?"

"Roach."

Seeing that Geralt wasn't going to explain, Jaskier said, "After the fish."

"That silver freshwater," Gerring nodded, ever the fishing maniac. He stared at Geralt. "Much of a fisherman yoursel', boy?"

"I camped out a lot," said his Wolf, as if there was anywhere that would've accepted other witchers. They'd all faced the same problems on the Path. No human had wanted them, yet they'd _needed_ them. It was ironic.

"She'll work?" Jaskier brought the conversation back on track, only in the mood for a quick visit. "If we're to get to Cintra safely," he began.

Gerring rolled his hand at him, "Of course she will. Tested her before I got here."

Roach hissed at him, turning from her new perch on Geralt's shoulder to take a misjudged swipe at the man.

"I can see when I'm not wanted," said the man, leaning in to give Jaskier a quick ear pinch. "Get some sleep, kiddo. You look like you need it."

Jaskier puffed, calling after him, "You're looking pretty too, old bastard!"

A circle of magic was all that was left. Geralt muffled a snort. Jaskier elbowed his ribs.


	10. the memories that fade are nightmares that lurk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brief history lesson with jas on how elsiben broke, the lavender soap gets roughed up, geralts existing with the knowledge that jaskier in a dress turns him on, and oh - yeah, they kiss. vesemir shows up too cuz I love our papa wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I was gonna write the ball this chap but then everyone strong-armed their way in and Vesemir demanded an appearance so here we are
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: swearing, witcher contract, blood, injury, trauma, possible alluded PTSD symptoms, mentioned dead people/death, possible themes of depression, sexual advances, brief mention for Emetophobia,

The night Jaskier lost Elsiben, he was not prepared for it.

It was 1572 and he was a fresh breeze in a small town. The town was no different than any other, with a town hall and people who cursed his kind, except for the fact this small town had grieved the loss of sixteen people before his very arrival. Sixteen dead, all in less than a month. Enough to cause uprage; enough to warrant the hire of a passing witcher.

Losnir was quaint, perched upon Termeria and Redania's border. There was a population of a few thousand, enough to rake together a decent sum for payment of the monster plaguing their homes. The people were a superstitious bunch, firmly enthralled with their faerie tales and their hymns of knightly saviours. Upon Jaskier's questioning, they were adamant that they were being cursed by the mayor's late-wife; the woman's spirit enraged she'd been replaced not six years into death. Jaskier hadn't been so sure, although the murmurings that she'd loved the wind were hard to ignore. When he'd finally queried it with the stingy people they'd divulged how they believed it was the wife returned as an Edimmu - a malevolent wind spirit that sucked peoples souls out of their bodies - and was killing the people, stealing people from their beds. There was no bodies.

He'd nodded along and listened but had put it down to a grieving bunch of mortals not knowing better. There was a plethora of things that could be slowly killing the population, nevermind stealing them away in the dead of night. Edimmu were faerie tales to the extreme, although Jaskier hadn't been willing to rule out the involvement of fae. Fae enjoyed fucking around with humans and if they were the ones doing something here he knew it would've been a lost cause. Otherwise, if the fucking long dead ex-wife really had came back as a Melitele-damned Edimmu (which Jaskier hadn't been trained to deal with _because they weren't real_ ) he didn't know what he'd do.

Eventually, he narrowed the deaths down to a pattern - not in _who_ was being killed, but _where_ they were being killed. The deaths were focused around the west of the town, nearest the forest that was more a bunch of trees covering up an expansion of old cave systems that trolls had once lived in. On the second night of staying in a stuffy inn that stunk of shit and goat, Jaskier braved the night and decided to venture down into the caves, because if the killer wasn't in the caves he didn't know where they fucking were. He knew it wasn't a ghost, because ghosts usually left bodies and there were no bodies - his best bet was some sort of animal, like a Warg, or something with higher intelligence than the usual sea slug.

What he did not expect to see, walking down one of the cobbled roads with the sky dark and the moon hidden, was a pack of three Hellhounds materializing out of the dirt. The dogs didn't seem to see him first, and Jaskier noted carefully that the street was deserted. Hellhounds usually appeared when somebody was doing something fucked up, only stopping once their chosen victims were dead. He had no want to fight with the Specters but, if by chance, they were the ones killing the people - highly unlikely though, seeing as they liked to make a mess - he'd have to deal with them.

 _Yrden and steel,_ he reminded himself as he bent his knees and ventured forth. The Hellhounds were circling, the three red-ish beasts, nosing at each other as they walked in a disjointed circle. Jaskier stepped forth slowly, boots crunching on the gravel.

Three heads whipped up to stare at him, white eyes searching and dangerous. They growled as one, lips peeling back to make way for thick saliva that dribbled to the ground where it fizzled upon contact with the cobblestone. Slowly, he moved his hands, reaching for his fangs, but the hounds lunged, long legs crossing the small distance of a few feet instantly. Then, before he could blink, they were upon him and his back was crunching down-

In a cave. Likely one in the cave system outside of town. He landed on his back, armour taking the shock as his gambeson blocked out the cold. The Hellhounds were gone, replaced by a looming Ekimma that seemed to grin down at him. The overlarge bat shuffled back as he sat up, eyes searching as he cast his gaze around. Six Ekimma stood around the large hollow, two Alps kneeling by a fuckling woman sitting on what looked like a throne of rotting flesh. It certainly stunk like it. Their eyes bore into his soul, hungry and threatening.

Jaskier knew he was in danger, so he rolled to his feet and tried to smooth things over before he grew a need to swing his fangs around.

"I take it you're the ones behind the deaths?" He grunted, finding himself unable to rise off his knees as the woman stood, naked as the day she was born, and strolled towards him. Her short blonde hair swirled around her breasts, her ribs stood gaunt like her cheeks and her legs looked like they could stretch for miles. She leaned down, in front of him, so close, and ran a soft hand through his hair.

He couldn't move.

"Deaths?" Purred the woman who was no woman at all. "No, darling witcher, they were sacrifices. People get so riled up nowadays, truly."

She tutted like it was no big deal and the head on her throne _didn't_ match the description of the latest victim perfectly. The Higher Vampire hummed and followed his eyeline, laughing and stroking his cheek as she lowered herself into his lap, legs curling around him.

"Oh yes," she cooed. "Do you like my decorations? My darling lesser had so much fun running about after them that I just had to honor my toys somehow."

He wasn't sure who she was referring to when she said toys. He didn't really want to know either.

"Why," he started but found he couldn't open his mouth after he'd closed it. Panic began to swirl through his veins. He'd never run into a Higher Vampire before, though they were such a trouble, not even counting its posse of Ekimma and Alps.

"Good boy," purred the Vampire as she shifted, face lengthening and fingers drawing out to become long claws. Jaskier tried to shift back but one of those claws caught his jaw and dug in until it broke skin. The woman pulled her finger down, dragging the gash down his cheek, into his neck, only barely stopping above his collarbone. It was sure to scar, a long, burning gash down the entirety of his neck, cutting through the side of his jaw. He'd kill her for it.

The blonde, on the other hand, seemed intimately _pleased_. She pulled in, long tongue darting out to dig into the cut, pushing it wider. He narrowed his eyes against the feeling, only keeping his hiss of pain silent due to her magic laying heavy over his shoulders. Jaskier watched, helpless as she reached down and dragged four ragged lines through his armour, pouting when they didn't break through the leather.

The Higher shuffled back from his core to move on to his thigh, peeling back his armour to dig into muscle and _twist_. Jaskier broke past her magic to shout in pain, startling a jerk out of her that pulled on the wound. The Higher Vampire hissed crudely at him, eyes a dangerous red as she glared down at him.

"That's not very nice, maybe one of my girls can teach you to be nice." The Higher backed off, standing on those long legs to hop away from him. With her no longer on top of him, he could breathe freely. The Alp that loomed closer wasn't too pressing. Jaskier narrowed his eyes and dug down, summoning a powerful Yrden through memory and a little extra chaos, staining the Sign on the rough stone floor with the blood that had run down from his neck to his thumb. The Higher Vampire screeched as the other lesser froze, unable to move in the magic circle. With relief, Jaskier noted she wouldn't be able to move either and focused on on breaking out of the magic completely.

To the music of the Vampire howling at him, he pulled himself to his feet, methodically slitting the throats and burning each lesser there until only the Higher remained. The Hellhounds hadn't made a reappearance, of which he was grateful. Elsiben went wide to slit the Higher's throat, in a noble quest to give Jaskier's ears a rest against her high pitch, before the Higher Vampire grinned at him. Elsiben shattered in his hands, steel falling to clatter off the stone of the cave.

He seen red.

Jaskier woke up to a bleated sunrise, a Higher Vampire's head lolled beside him, Elsiben clumped in a pile between a few stones. Carefully, with the utmost reverence, he scooped what remained of the precious blade - so little, too little - into a larger than average glass vial, using her knobbed handle for a stopper. He made sure his armour wouldn't fall apart with a little hiking and gave the wench a low smirk before proceeding to grab her by her locks. Jaskier swung her head back and forth as he walked back to the village.

He had no doubt, come winter, the boys would be all over this story. The thought of seeing them again did something to quell the sharp hurt in his chest at having lost Elsiben.

Humming, Jaskier emerged from the shower, quickly wrapping his long hair in the towel before it whipped around and wet everything. In the steam from his shower, the lavender bit at him, seeming to claw at his chest as he breathed it in. Seconds later found the window shoved open, the bar of soap thrown out of it.

Ever one to deny a bad mood, he strolled into his bedroom, opening the wardrobe doors and stepping into the charmed box. He'd made it more of a room, filled with everything from clothes to weapons; only visible by chaos wielders, should a human somehow enter and get to his room. (Jaskier couldn't deny being paranoid.)

There was a special rack for his amount of dresses, a few black mourning ones mixed in amongst the other ones. Most of them were bright shades dulled down, as to draw attention to his eyes - which he usually covered with cornflower blue eye contacts, for the fun of it. He was used to wearing contacts for events, as such things were usually hosted by people outside of the Ancient community and most would not take well to his slitted eyes. He couldn't wait to leave the annoying blue contacts here for once.

Cirilla had said the ball was at three. Jaskier, having slept in, had woken at ten. He'd binged a few more episodes of Lost in Space before moving on to Ru Paul's Drag Race whilst raiding the fridge's jelly stores before finally pulling himself up for a shower. It was now a little past twelve and damn was he tired.

Apparently a few hundred years of sleep deprivation caught up on one when they let their guard down. He'd been sleeping on and off for a week and he was still tired, if restless. If he wasn't feeling up for energy exertion, he'd have to down the entire caffeine pot before the ball.

Geralt had fucked off, gone since the early hours (which was now around eleven for him) on some hunt in the forest. Drowners, he'd said. Jaskier had waved him off, knee deep in the next tragedy to hit the poor Robinsons. The Wolf had been away for a while but Jaskier wasn't worried; he didn't doubt the man's skill, because he was still alive, and he knew from experience how long it could take to trudge through the forest.

"Hello, kitty," Jaskier cooed as Roach appeared behind him, having followed him in. He wasn't too worried the cat would see anything as he'd shrugged on a pair of sport-slim boxers before he'd jumped into his wardrobe.

Ragnar had suggested the green dress, as it was the only one he'd seen. Jaskier wasn't too fond on it himself but he couldn't deny it was pretty - hence why he had it. The dress was floor-length hugging long, with a glorious slit up the side that was nothing in comparison to his red dress' gash. Although, since he didn't want everything from his abs down visible, Jaskier agreed that the green was suitable. No way in hell was he wearing a blue dress to Cintra - he might as well wear their damn flag. He didn't like the blue anyway, that one was better for when he broke out the brown eyed contacts.

Because it was still a few hours from the party, Jaskier only went so far as to pull the dress out of its hanging place and lay it over his bed. Roach sniffed at it but he shooed her off before she could rub up against it or something. The cat looked at him but gave up without a fight, dawdling out of the room as he pulled on a shirt and debated the worth of half-deafening himself with his rarely used hairdryer. Jaskier thumbed his medallion, spared a certain floorboard a morose look and made a decision. He slipped into a hoodie and a pair of jeans, trainers barely on his feet before he was summoning a portal.

What better way to check that his medallion truly was fixed? For Melitele's sake, he didn't even know what had been wrong with it.

He murmured. "Medallion: Sixteen."

The cold air gnawed at him, swirling his hair around him - delightfully wavy after him having slept in the braiding the whole weekend. Ważna Góra had been around for centuries, deep in the Northern regions, far away from their little donjon in the South. Ivar had liked the North, had climbed this very mountain to rid it of a manticore that was terrorising the poor little village at the foot of this great rock foundation. According to him, it had taken a week to climb and only hours to find the manticore. He'd been paid surprisingly well for it, half the reason why he'd even agreed to do the hunt in the first place. Days to climb the damn mountain, hours to find the beast, Ivar had reminisced when he was more than a few cups in and still telling the story.

The old man had loved the view though, having been brought to the very highmost ledge in his journey. One night, he'd confided to Jaskier that up there was the calmest place he'd ever been, somewhere he'd been able to pause for a moment and breath, enjoying the fresh manticore meat in his stomach. Ivar had confessed if there was anywhere he wanted his body buried or his ashes spread, it was up on the mountain of Ważna Góra. At the time, Jaskier had snorted and rolled his eyes, but after the army had left and he'd pulled himself back up from the hollow, he'd burned everyone's bodies - separately, all except the bastard soldiers who'd burned as one lump (he didn't care about them and had dumped their ashes in a muddy puddle) - he'd specifically bottled and named everyone, spreading the young boys off the top of the Tir (as was promised for every boy that didn't make it past the Trials) and the older men wherever he saw fit. Ivar's ashes had stayed with him for years, until he'd made it to the mountain, climbed it alone and had spread his ashes from the topmost rock he could stand on. Centuries later, when he'd conjured up the idea for the medallions to summon portals when Kolgrim was getting stuck in places unsavoury, he'd added the mountain as his own place, the second number to be added, Sixteen.

Sixteen because of the number of young children and witchers who'd died at the keep that day. Sixteen because it reminded him of his failures and reminded everyone what caused wars. Sixteen was he was a sadistic bastard that couldn't let go of the past.

For now, Jaskier stood where he and Letho had fallen not a week prior, and remembered a man he shouldn't still weep over but was.

Geralt stepped out of the shower, realising that the lavender soap was gone. It was a welcome progression - the smell having had him near sneezing on multiple occasions - and he wondered how Jaskier had put up with it himself. The Viper had a better nose than him, proven by the whole honey incident where his medallion allegedly smelt of honey but to Geralt it only smelt of metal and grit. Although, he wasn't even sure the soap was the other man's seeing as he never smelt like lavender just spice and something warm.

He towelled his hair, desperate to not have to blow dry it in preparation for Ciri's party in two hours. Jaskier was being oddly silent, not having been in the lounge, so on his way - towel wrapped around his waist - he knocked on his bedroom door.

"Come in, Wolf," beckoned Jaskier's soothing drawl. Geralt pushed open the door and was met with an incredulous eyebrow raise from the man sitting on his bed in naught but jeans, combing his hair.

"All good?" Asked the Viper, eyes straying appreciatively down his muscle. "How were the drowners?"

"Easily dealt with," he grunted back. There was a green dress on Jaskier's bed. "That your dress?"

"Mhmm," Jaskier murmured, finally scowling at his hair and magically charming it flat. It drooped around him sadly but a click of his fingers had it springing up in luxurious but calm waves, framing his face. "Was gonna put it on later, or are we showing up early?"

Geralt hummed, doing the math. "Guess we could go an hour early, like most do."

"Have to make a grand entrance," Jaskier winked.

"Introduce you to the others," Geralt nodded, abandoning him with a wave. He needed to get changed.

"I threw the lavender soap out," said Jaskier, apparently more than happy to have a conversation through the walls. It wasn't like they needed to shout, both of them having better hearing than most humans. "Sorry."

Dress shirt half-way over his shoulders, Geralt grunted. Confusion filtered up at the apology. "It was your soap, I didn't like it."

A long pause echoed between them, a soft shuffling coming from Jaskier as he stood or something. Then, after a stunted moment where Geralt buttoned up his slacks, "It wasn't mine. I thought it was yours?"

Blinking, Geralt frowned at the wall. He slipped his cufflinks into his cuffs, twisting the wolf shaped studs until they sat nicely. "No. A prank by one of yours?"

"They know I'd be off my rocker," Jaskier huffed. "They're scared enough of me as is, one of yours maybe?"

"Wouldn't think so."

Jaskier started humming so Geralt left him alone, walking into the kitchenette to shine his shoes and feed Roach. There was an uneasy feeling in his stomach, a tight knot in his gut, at the thought of leaving her behind. He dismissed it and got out the plate for Roach and scooped out the cat food onto it. She swiped happily at him before settling down to eat. Leaning against the counter, he frowned and debated the worth of calling Vesemir and making him catsit. Smirking at himself, he cast those thoughts aside and pulled the polishing brush from under the sink to rub at his dress shoes.

"You dress up pretty, Wolf," Jaskier crooned, whisking into the room in a flurry of green. Geralt offered a grunt of thanks before he looked up from slipping on his shoes and nearly dropped dead.

The dress was a dark emerald green that made Jaskier's eyes pop, the bright gold amber of them seeming to shine in the natural light that flooded the kitchenette. Whatever fabric the long piece was made from, it looked like it was shimmering, light bouncing off it to create a veritable halo in Geralt's mind. There was a long slit flowing up the left-leg side, stopping shortly before it hit mid-thigh, showcasing clean shaven legs that had enough muscle to kill with a kick. Jaskier was wearing simple black pumps with the slightest heel on them, long brown hair swirling beautifully around him in luscious waves and contrasting beautifully to the black mascara and blood red lipstick. There were piercings in Jaskier's ears, real studs along the helix and an industrial piercing splitting through the top of his right ear, the golden bar glowing, long dangly gemmed earrings hanging from his lobes, each accessory housing a different coloured gem but simple, like the assortment of golden bracelets lining his wrists. With the low cut dress that pulled out a feminine figure and gave the appearance of soft breasts - showing a sun-kissed, bare collarbone that was broken only by the large scar scissoring through it - Geralt thought his heart might just give out at the sight.

Jaskier smiled at him, red lips pulling over white teeth. He swept forth, stopping inches away from Geralt's face. Their chests were nearly touching. "Aren't I pretty, my White Wolf?"

"Yes," Geralt managed to croak, throat dry as wheat. "You're very pretty."

He fluttered his eyelashes, looking up at him with a burning gaze. "Just _'very'_?"

"Extremely," he breathed, inhaling the scent of spice and a low sensuous perfume up close. He felt high, floating on clouds, towering over every King in this wretched world. Feeling daring, he pushed his hand out, curling his arm around Jaskier's deceptively thin waist. In the dress he was waif-like, such a difference to the lean muscled form that he presented in his armour. A low rumble reverberated through them both, the origin point unknown as Jaskier came flush against his chest, nails painted black running along his white shirt, gently scraping along his muscle. "You're gorgeous."

"Thank you, Geralt." And gods if the way the Viper said his name, soft but thrilled, didn't do things to him. Another growl echoed between them and this time it was Geralt's cause, leaning down to curl a finger under Jaskier's chin as he held him close. Jaskier's pupils were thickened slits as he purred, "You can kiss me if you'd like. My makeup will hold."

Geralt dived in, pushing against soft lips that tasted of cherries and _so Jaskier_ that he couldn't help but growl pleasingly. He moved his hand down, cupping Jaskier's ass and pulling him impossibly closer, getting a gasp out of the other. They didn't necessarily need as much oxygen as humans did, so Geralt pushed the kiss on, feeling like he could consume Jaskier if he just had enough time as he slipped his tongue into his mouth.

Roach brushed up against his legs, curling between he and Jaskier despite the complete lack of room between them. The cat did this just as Jaskier began to teasingly bite down on Geralt's tongue, but as the cat settled, Jaskier pulled back, hurriedly retreating with an apologetic smile.

"Cat hair does not belong on my dress," smiled the man, stepping away with a pleased look and wide pupils. His makeup was still as clean as ever, firmly staying in place even as Jaskier ruffled at his dress and pulled it back around him so it wasn't laying crooked from their jaunt. He spared Roach a look, eyes narrowing in threat as the cat hissed moodily. "Will she be alright for the night?"

Geralt hesitated. Jaskier's eyes flicked up to bore into his.

"We could leave her with one of my boys, if you'd like. Unless there's someone willing to take her?"

He shook his head. "Vesemir likes her," he felt foolish.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. "But?"

"He's at Kaer Morhen." He said, "Too far away."

"I could portal us there to drop her off," Jaskier suggested, plucking at the gentle silver chain around his neck. On closer inspection, Geralt saw past the low-level glamour and saw the man's medallion. He chuffed but couldn't fault him, seeing as he was wearing his own medallion under his tux as well.

"You can do that?"

"Of course, are we finished here? I can portal us there and then straight to Cintra. Pick up the cat," and then, almost as an afterthought as Jaskier clutched his arm by his elbow, "Please don't be sick on my dress. Vomit turns me."

Jaskier called for the medallion to take them to Kaer Morhen once Roach had jumped up into his arms. To Geralt, it was as if the floor had swallowed them up, soaring towards them in a flurry of white. A nauseated blink later, Geralt and Jaskier were standing in the courtyard of Kaer Morhen, a stunned Vesemir kneeling beside the goat pen as he put it back together. For a moment the only sound was Lil Bleater bleating at them curiously.

"Grandmaster Vesemir of the Wolf School," Jaskier spun out of his grip, twirling towards Vesemir to offer the man a greeting handshake. "I have heard much of you and thus bring the greetings only another Master may."

"Grandmaster Jaskier of the Viper School," Vesemir nodded. "Good to meet you, son."

The Viper tilted his head like he'd seen a puzzle. "I'm afraid not," he said suddenly. "It appears I am indeed older. Ah, Letho's going to laugh at me now."

There was a moment where Vesemir simply blinked before bursting into a chuckling sort of laughter. "I'm sure, how old would you be, then?"

Jaskier pursed his lips. "I came into being around the six-hundreds," Vesemir blinked as Geralt gawked. "So, I'm fourteen hundred, give or take."

"A few centuries behind you myself," Vesemir huffed. They both could tell Jaskier wasn't lying, his scent staying calm and relaxed. "And yet I look so much older."

"Got some elf in me, I do believe," hummed Jaskier. "Although, I was quite the experimental child, the elders had their fun with the potions during the Trials."

The sunny grin the Viper gave would be enough to fool even the most astute but the quiver of discontent in his scent was clear as day to Geralt.

He cleared his throat, looking meaningfully down at Roach, who'd lost interest with them and had went to paw at Lil' Bleater who, in turn, was jumping about the cat.

"Since we're going out to Ciri's ball, you think you can watch her?"

Vesemir cast the cat a look. "I'm sure I'll find something for her to do. Not willing to leave her at your place?"

Jaskier huffed a laugh. "Of course not," he said, waving a leisurely hand. "Far too many dangerous magical objects there for her to be left alone with."

The old Wolf offered his own gruff grin. "Very well, I'll keep her for the night. Go enjoy yourselves."

"Not planning to come along?" Geralt asked as Jaskier reattached himself to his elbow, fingers grazing his necklace.

"I'll come along to her smaller one in a week," Vesemir grunted and waved them off.

Jaskier nodded in respect, hand curling as one did when leaving someone of equal rank within the Schools (an old honor tradition left over from the Griffin School) and spoke to his medallion.

"Medallion: Cintra's Palace."

Geralt held on for his life.


	11. never been a perfect soul but i will not apologise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enter cintra: it's ball timeeee! jas dazzles the crowd and works on making a friend :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS : swearing, mention of death, possible depressive themes, hallucination, alcohol consumption, addressing scars, paranoia, implied PTSD, mention for Emetophobia, possibly sensitive topics of conversation,

Jaskier cast a quick glance around himself, assuring that they had portalled to Cintra and not Lettenhove or somewhere twice as ghastly. Indeed, before them, everywhere, hung banners on the large stone walls, floors delicately polished and smelling slightly of lemon. They'd portalled into some hallway, one not too far from the main ballroom, if the soft lilting music and voices were anything to go by.

Geralt grunted beside him, grip tighter on Jaskier's arm than Jaskier's grip was on his. He looked a little grey as he straightened himself.

"Need a moment?" Jaskier queried. It was perfectly normal for people new to portalling to have a stomach twist on landing and two consecutive jumps was maybe a bit much for a beginner. He just hoped Geralt would turn around if he was going to be sick.

Geralt swallowed heavily and Jaskier twitched his fingers, ready to make a Quen to protect his dress. But Geralt nodded, "I'm alright now."

Peering at him, Jaskier assessed the situation; the paleness he usually sported had returned, his pupils looked the right size and he wasn't swallowing reflexively anymore. He didn't smell distressed, nothing unusual aside from the faint, flickering scent of magic that now clung to his tux.

"Whatever you say, darling," a pat on the cheek made sure Geralt wasn't going to take a turn if someone jostled him and then they were off, Jaskier canoodling his Wolf down the hallway towards the music and smells.

Geralt matched his long legged pace easily, taking long, confident strides. His dress shoes shone beside Jaskier's green dress, the two of them a delicious sight to be savoured. Jaskier felt giddy at the thought, clutching Geralt's elbow with his arm as they breezed through the corridors, only stopping when they came up to a grand hall with its two main doors flung open.

The room was large, likely the one where betrothal feasts occurred, covered in large hanging drapes, coloured in the customary Cintran blue and gold, the family crest of the royal family sitting firm in the center of every drape. There was a gaggle of people already inside, loitering with glasses of champagne. To the far left of the room stood a long table, spanning nearly the entire length of the room, with numerous foods piled high upon it. If Jaskier had've brought his boys they likely would've started up a bet on who could fill their plate the most, trying everything from the sushi to the prawns.

Queen Cirilla's birthday ball was a traditional Cintran ball, in which there were no seats and you danced until your legs hurt or you were spirited off by someone pretty enough to count. The food was a customary, with many servers likely waiting in the nooks of the kitchen right this moment in preparation for the running and twirling they'd have to do to deliver their drinks. It was a drink-dance-talk event, meaning you grabbed the wine glasses from the waiters' trays, mingled pleasantly with words that were too sweet and too sour at the same time and then, after the obligatory announcement of the host, danced until you decided not to. There was a reason Jaskier had forgone heels - not that he liked them much otherwise.

"Look who decided to show up!" Lambert called from the gaggle of people who'd turned to look at them. Jaskier had to say, the youngest Wolf dressed up nice with his dark navy suit and pretty bowtie. Geralt hadn't worn a tie which Jaskier was only slightly miffed about now - as it meant no tugging for him later; he wasn't sure the other man would appreciate getting his hair tugged. "Ger-Bear!"

"Ger-Bear?" Jaskier asked, laughter muffled by the hand he raised to flutter over his collarbone.

Geralt grunted and they floated over to the group. The Wolves from that drinking night at his apartment were all there, Eskel clapping Geralt on the back as Triss smiled and Yennefer winked at him. Cirilla was with them, looking stunning in a long golden dress that parted at the front in a ball dress-like fashion to show off her calves and firm but thin heels. A new face stared at him, a long black wiry beard puffed up over a freshly ironed blazer. The man's hair was cut short to his scalp, the small pox scars strikingly obvious, perhaps more so than his bloodshot, sickly yellow-green eyes.

Jaskier, on bias of people having scars being a bit self-conscious, held his hand out to him first. "Pleasure to meet you," the Griffin medallion sitting proudly on the man's chest told him all he needed. "I've heard a lot about you, Coën."

Coën, one of the few remaining Griffin witchers, blinked owlishly. "All good things, I hope?"

And Melitele if his soft tone wasn't the cutest thing Jaskier had heard since that foglet a few hundred years had accidentally turned into a baby bear and roared at him like a mouse.

"As good as Lambert can give when drunk on his own brew," Jaskier assured, smile feeling too small on his lips. He debated widening it before remembering the fiasco with his boys where he'd smiled too widely at them and they'd cowered, thinking he was threatening them. He settled with a firm handshake and a gentle pat on the wrist instead. "I'm Jaskier."

Immediately, Coën's eyes widened. He flailed for words. "Jaskier of the Viper School? You'll have to accept my deepest apologies," and then he swooped down into a grandiose, low-swept bow. "It is my utmost honor to meet you, Grandmaster Jaskier of the Viper School."

Jaskier blinked, hand fluttering down to reassure the modest, polite Griffin. It wasn't often someone went that deep for him.

"Please, boy, your mannerisms are as polite as I'd expect of any witcher from the Griffin School. Relinquish your bow - there is no such need for that here."

Coën returned to his height in time for Lambert to slap him mightily on the back, grin huge. The youngest Wolf stuck his hand out, besiegingly.

"His manners always have been better than mine," proclaimed the boy. Jaskier could see a challenge when he saw one and couldn't quite hold back the chuff of laughter. Gods, he needed to get out more; he hadn't realised how informal his boys had grown, to the point where being bowed at was amusing and flustering.

"I'm well aware of that, little Lamb," Jaskier smirked, head tilting to the side as he took in the incredulous stuttering of the boy. "Good to see you again. I heard you'd have some drink of your own here?"

Lambert's cheeks had flushed in arrogance but at the reminder of his pride he shucked his chin up. "Fuck yeah, don't think you need any though."

Jaskier hummed, letting his eyes twinkle. From the way his hand was very suddenly released, Lambert was regretting his decision to hold onto his liquor. He righted his head, feeling his hair curl around him jovially, and looked to the next person.

"Triss," he winked, pulling up her hand to place a light kiss there. "I must apologise for the cheek of my boys, your Wives Tears was splendid."

Triss smiled but Yennefer butted in. "What exactly was the cause of all that, Viper?"

"Ah," he tilted his head back, a clear warning. "Nothing to worry about, darling Yennefer. My boys can be stingy with strangers, is all."

The sorceress raised a prim eyebrow. Jaskier grinned and fluttered over to kiss the Queen's hand.

"Cirilla, quite the magnificent arrangement you have here," the blonde smiled back, fingers tapping at his wrist in kind. "You're looking amazing."

"Stunning dress yourself, Jaskier," the girl said, eyeing the green and how it shimmered. She raised a hand, summoning a server with his tray. "May I tempt you to a glass of champagne?"

Jaskier could feel the headache coming on already but grabbed a glass all the same. Beside him, Geralt pilfered one for himself and turned into a sturdy wall behind him. Darling Wolf probably smelt his unease.

Eskel was quiet. Jaskier held out his hand and nodded to him when he returned the shake. Everyone's hands were rough with calluses, something Jaskier did not miss. It was evident they worked hard, even the Queen (for he knew what she truly was).

"The room will start filling up soon," Cirilla noted as the first throng of people entered, beelining towards her. The group broke up as more entered, eventually dividing up into their own herds as nobles flooded the room.

Soft, gentle music echoed as the cellist and their band kept an upbeat but quiet tempo. Geralt remained by his side as they frisked around the room, alternating between grabbing the little cakes on the serving trays to gulping down champagne that did nothing for them but was slowly intoxicating the mortals. The room was spacious, big enough for triple the numbers it currently held, proven when Cirilla tapped the side of her glass in a bid for attention and the murmuring couples stalled in place, spread out widely.

"Thank you all for coming," Cirilla began. Jaskier tuned her out, preferring to swirl his champagne as Eskel came towards them, only just having been able to worm away from a curious nobleman he'd been pulled into a conversation with. The witcher stopped beside them, Jaskier offering him a knowing smile as he quickly grabbed a glass from a passing server.

"Not your scene?" Jaskier hummed quietly as Cirilla's speech went on, garnering a few chuckles at something she said. Crowded between two Wolf witchers, Jaskier felt smaller than ever, but he took it in stride, shuffling over to gently bump elbows with Geralt's brother.

"No, not quite," Eskel admitted, head tilted to hide his gnarly scars in the shadow of his hair. It didn't quite work, seeing as his hair was gelled back rather completely and the action only drew attention to the left side of his face. Jaskier tipped his glass forth and chimed the edge of his off Eskel's gently as Cirilla's speech finished and the band begun picking up the pace in preparation for dancing.

"Dance with me?" He prompted, draining his glass before pushing it at a server.

Eskel hesitated, golden eyes flitting behind Jaskier, to Geralt. Jaskier rolled his eyes bemusedly, turning to quickly peck the man's cheek.

"I'm going to twirl your brother about for a bit, dear. Do try to not get jealous."

Geralt smirked at him, turning to catch him on the lips. For a moment, Jaskier thought he'd deepen the kiss to levels unacceptable in public before he drew back and knocked his head towards Eskel, who set his glass on a servers tray and seemed to resign himself to his fate. "Have fun."

Jaskier grinned and turned to a surprised looking Eskel. He tugged at the man's sleeve, pulling him out of the corner where they'd been lurking into the center of the room, where countless dresses were twirling with sharp turns and pirouettes. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier seen Cirilla headed towards Geralt, and silently laughed.

A soft gentle song came on and Eskel took lead, easily sifting Jaskier around. They joined the dancers immaculately, making it obvious the Wolf knew how to dance. When it came to spinning sharply on a twirl, Jaskier was glad he'd worn pumps.

They swayed back and forth, Geralt and Cirilla joining the hubbub at the edge. In a moment where they came close, Jaskier nearly chest to chest with Eskel, he decided conversation would be nice.

"You're a spectacular dancer," he complimented.

Eskel faded back as his hands shot out for a twirl Jaskier obediently followed. When they swayed back together, there was a gentle blush on the man's ears. "I'm nothing special," dismissed the Wolf. "Just something I've picked up on chaperoning Ciri to these events."

Such a modest boy. "I'm sure." They swept into a particularly bright section as the song slowed in preparation for the ending. Couples were stepping back from the dance floor now, ready to let the Queen dance with who she wished alone - as was the odd Cintran tradition for the second song. Eskel slowed them too, head tilting in the light.

He needed to speak now or he'd lose his chance. "You're beautiful, you know," Jaskier said. Eskel's feet stumbled but the Viper kept them right, drifting along gently to the final few chords. "You shouldn't hide just because mortals are prickly."

The song ended. Jaskier tugged his gaping companion into the outer ringed crowd around the dance floor and snagged a glass for them both. They stood in a lull as Cirilla tugged Geralt onto the floor. Eskel wasn't speaking, busy mulling over what the Viper had said, emotions creating a veritable scent storm beside him.

It was almost comedic, watching the wondrous Wolf cast his gaze around in a last ditch attempt to flee. Jaskier caught his gaze and winked in a reassuring motion. With a final puff, Geralt took Cirilla's hand and the song begun.

He was quite content to stand beside Eskel and watch the two spin about on the floor, weaving and coming together in a crescendo of motion and finesse. They made a cute father-daughter pair as they twirled around, Cirilla's dress flaring out at her knees on her spins. The dancing was all classic traditional dancing for the first three dances, then it was whatever you wanted as the songs delved more into love songs and tributes. Finally, at the end of the night, the slow dances would return, when most people had gone home and the remaining were too drunk to twirl too quickly.

As Cirilla was dipped low in a thrilling twist, Eskel spoke, tone low as to keep their conversation as private as possible.

"Are you joking?"

Jaskier kept his eyes on the dancing pair, taking a slow drag from his glass. "What is there to joke about, sweetheart?"

"You're not funny," Eskel hissed, hurt seeping into his voice. A sharp shift caught Jaskier's ears and his senses shot out to locate a ferocious Lambert worming his way through the crowd towards them.

"I'm not trying to be, Eskel." His serious tone cracked between them like a whip, startling a flinch out of the boy. "Your scars are nothing to hide from and I understand you may dislike them, but you can use them for the better rather than mope over them and hide your face in unseen shadows. You'll give yourself a permanent neck cric if you're not careful."

Lambert's pace had slowed. Eskel's heart was hammering. Geralt's eyes felt like they were burning into Jaskier's soul. He knew the others were watching or listening closely.

"You need to stop fearing yourself." He clutched his glass and gripped the boy's elbow, squeezing gently to get his point across. Eskel looked at him and they stared into each others eyes for a long moment. The boy's frown was heavy, even as Jaskier brushed back a hair that strayed from the gel. "Trust me, sweetheart, I've seen much worse. If these mortals make you so uncomfortable, scare the shit out of them and have your fun. Ignore them."

Jaskier felt the prick of eyes on him ease. Geralt dipped Cirilla in a low bow out of sync with the music and was rewarded with a beaming smile and a gentle pat to his chest. Very suddenly Jaskier became keenly aware of a man standing on the outer ring watching Geralt and Cirilla dance.

The grey hair pulled up in a firm, high ponytail, the long beard that scraped his breastbone, the black leather shirt and an all too familiar black eyepatch cutting through a long wretched scar; Jaskier couldn't help how his heart stumbled over its beat, couldn't stop his lips parting. He sucked in a low breath, filled with smoke and the ratty scathe of death and saw the keep flash before his eyes, the gentle music turning into the thunder of an army falling at his knees, the glass in his hand becoming Elsiben ready to slit the Usurper's throat over a field's flowers in Nilfgaard.

Ivar Evil-Eye stared at him, gaze unwavering. His lips moved, words coming out of them, unspoken and unheard. It wouldn't have mattered anyway if they'd been audible, for Jaskier couldn't even hear the music anymore.

Sound returned to him in the form of the music crumbling to a stop. People were clapping. Geralt and Cirilla fell apart, both smiling. Jaskier stared wide-eyed at Ivar. His eyes watered and finally, he blinked. In Ivar's place, stood a random noble woman Jaskier did not know. She was clapping and smiling along with the crowds, unaware of the monster that was staring at her in a fit of unseen inner turmoil.

 _Ivar's dead,_ he reminded himself sharply, slowly beginning to clap as Geralt made his way towards him and the nobles flooded the dance floor once more. Geralt's eyes were bright and Jaskier swallowed the rest of his drink. _Ivar's been dead for nearly a thousand years, get a grip of yourself._

His glass was empty. He clutched it as Geralt pulled up, patting Eskel on the shoulder. Jaskier felt unsteady, felt the week fall down on him like a tsunami drowning a city, and grabbed onto Geralt's elbow as he came to a halt beside him.

His medallion hummed and Jaskier felt his stomach drop. His chest was warmed by the metal, humming and quivering on the chain. Geralt's hand gripped his.

Why was his medallion shaking? What had he done? Poisoned? Perhaps one of the girls was using magic?

_Magic._

The wards were resetting back at Twenty-Eight. Following the monthly cycle they always did, reformatting and merging together stronger. He'd forgotten. How foolish of him. He would kick himself if he didn't doubt the security of his legs right now.

"Alright?" Geralt asked. He'd taken his glass, a soft spider-webbing crack trailing along from the base where he'd clutched it too tightly.

"Fine," he said, sounding a bit too light to be truly convincing. He cleared his throat lightly as Geralt pushed forwards and set the cracked glass on a unobservant server's tray. "Sorry. The wards back at Twenty-Eight were resetting - startled me."

Eskel stood quietly. His gaze was curious, pinned on how close they'd bunched together. "How long have you two been together?"

Jaskier hummed as Geralt went stiff.

"Nothing official," said Jaskier, waving a feeble hand. Eskel gave him a disbelieving look so he amended his statement. "For now, at least. We've got all the time in the world."

Geralt was still stiff, if not as bad as before, so Jaskier trailed a hand up his side and dug a finger into his ribs. The action and ensuing pain seemed to snap the Wolf out of his daze and had him playfully reaching for him in threatening jest.

"You're a bunch of fucking liars," snorted Lambert as he barged into their circle. Triss followed quickly after him, surprisingly Yennefer-less.

"Whatever you say, Lamb," Jaskier smirked, amused as Triss pushed back the growling boy. "What happened your twin witch?"

Triss rolled her eyes. "She got dragged away by someone looking for some remedy. Knowing her she'll be back soon."

"A remedy?" Jaskier questioned. "Is that how she's preserved?"

"She's always been doing them," Triss shook her head, her glamorous braided hair staying firmly in place. The bright red of it glimmered in the overhead lights, contrasting beautifully with her long blue dress. Jaskier only realised now that Triss and Lambert were matching. Gods, he was off his game. The sorceress' eyes flickered over him and her tone softened with concern. "You feeling alright? You're looking a little pale."

"Geralt must be rubbing off on me," Jaskier smirked to the barrage of eyes that fell on him. The world felt heavy but as long as he got another few drinks in him and didn't sit down (lest he not get back up), he'd be fine. He turned to poke at the man he was shoulder to shoulder with. "See, three shades past white, we match. Soon I'll be grunting like him."

The Wolf smirked at him. "You do that of your own omission."

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. "I don't grunt, Wolf. I'm a Viper - I hiss."

The group rippled with laughter. Everyone was calm and relaxed and so the amusement faded gradually, leaving Jaskier feeling tipsy almost when Yennefer re-joined them. Her glorious purple dress with a low neckline was beautiful, drawing attention to her sharp eyes and firm lips.

"Regrouping so soon?" She smirked, hand on one hip as she hip checked Triss with her other. "Is Lamby-Wammy bringing out the vodka already?"

Lambert growled. "Depends how much you'll pay."

"I'll do you six old Termerian coins for a barrel," Coën said, appearing beside Geralt as the group floated further away from the dancing floor. Cirilla was twirling about on it still, seemingly enjoying herself.

"I believe I have some old dutsk coin," Jaskier hummed. "Is that enough to secure me a few bottles?"

The group spluttered. "Those coins are worth hundreds nowadays," Eskel noted.

"Really?" Jaskier tipped his head onto Geralt's shoulder. The man's breathing reassured him. "And here I was, thinking Kolgrim was having a practical joke on me."

"They do that much?" Triss questioned. She smelt amused.

"Oh yes," he hummed. "Quite the bunch of jokers I've raised."

"So," Lambert grunted when the amusement died down. "Highest bidder for a bottle?"

"In your dreams, baby wolf," Yennefer rolled her eyes. "Now hurry up and break the good stuff out before I accidentally stab someone."

"Feisty," Jaskier chuckled.


	12. we've been running wild, had a good time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> something's up with the soap, the crew are playing drinking games ft. two scary magic ladies, jas and geralt flirt under the premise of looking after roach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS : swearing, drinking games, excessive alcohol consumption, sexual themes shown & implied, Stregobor, mention of murder/death, the lavender soap, implied betrayal

The man with gleaming yellow-amber eyes materialised effortlessly in the middle of the room. In the quiet that came from no one being home his pupils narrowed, their inhumane snake-like slits thinning to the point of being paper-thin. If someone were to look in on the man standing beside the marble island, they might think he was suspicious enough to warrant a glare or a raised eyebrow, scathing words muttered under their breath - as it was, the man was alone in the sunset-illuminated apartment, body stooped low as if he was suffering a heart attack.

_Come now, Witcher,_ beckoned a taunting, reminding voice only the man heard. _Do your job._

With a steely glint in his bright eyes, the man righted himself, careful to not breathe too hard or touch anything he didn't need to. His task was a dangerous one and should he be caught out or traced back, the consequences would be an assured death. This man had too much to live for to keel over like a kikimore; very much so his fuelling force for standing here.

Stregobor had approached him one late night, divulging a fancy to serve a few much needed lessons to the man's Master; Jaskier of Gorthur Gvaed, the Vipers' Grandmaster, Crusher of Nations, the Bloodied Snake. The man was dangerous, bordering on unhinged, the monstrous mage reasoned, and Jaskier needed to learn a lesson in humility. The man, pushed into action through fears of his own and a few conspiring yet worrisome words from the ashen-haired man, had been inclined to agree to Stregobor's plan.

All he had to do was finish the job. Then he and his beloved could live easily, they could be free of prejudice. Assured, the Vipers would stumble with the fall of a man who'd led them through a war and the subsequent future they shouldn't have had, but this intruding man was sure that the Vipers would come back strong. As they always did.

Spurred in the dark shadows of his Master's home away from Gvaed, the sharp eyed man pulled what he was required to place from the satchel by his hip. It was a small block of soap, which he held carefully for reasons that he very much needed his hands. The soap reeked of lavender and the man knew it was a point of annoyance for his Master whenever something smelt too strongly. After all, just this morning his Master had chucked the previous bar out the bathroom window in a sudden fit.

This man hoped the job would be done swiftly, leaving him clear of that dreaded ire.

On the cleared island, the soap was placed, the strong aroma of sickening lavender strong enough to confuse even the man himself (who had made it) of what was hidden inside the soap, preserved and primed to be ready by Stregobor's magic.

_Let us hope it is quick,_ he thought sullenly, unsure whether to be wary of the mage's returning chuckle. His sole comfort was the fact that once this was done, once Master touched the soap, all would be over. Master wouldn't feel a thing, if the soap was triggered accordingly, and the man would be freed from the dark clutches of the mage.

_This show has gone on for long enough,_ Stregobor agreed. The man, suddenly jittery now that his cargo had been placed, hurried to clutch his medallion to leave. He prepared to receive word from his fellow - unsuspecting - Vipers, quietly awaiting the bad news to come.

The relocation of their group came only after an hour, as Cirilla had routed them out before they'd been able to flee the ballroom to a discreet side room. Now, with the sun setting low on the horizon and beaming through the large window that loomed over them all, Jaskier couldn't say he minded the reprieve. Something deep in his chest ached, puttering along like an infected wound or a maggot munching at a corpse, differing at the depth and intensity it struck him within his chest cavity. There was something amiss, he knew this subconsciously, but tonight Jaskier was tired enough to just let it go. There came a time where not all grievances could be mended and right this moment he wondered if this was one of those times.

"'Nother drink?" Lambert appeared, standing tall as he clutched his prized alcohol. If there was one thing to say about the man it was that he could most definitively brew a good quality stash.

Jaskier, strewn out over a fucking beanbag, laying half atop Geralt's lap whilst the man nursed his own bottle, could only shimmy his own empty bottle and wiggle his eyebrows suggestively. Lambert smirked and swapped out his empty for a full before bouncing over to join Triss on one of the two couches centred around a large hearth. The room was small but not enough to be claustrophobic, instead it was comfortable, lit softly by the setting sun and kept alive through the conversations being held within its walls. It was nice, even if the walls were coated in the tapestries of Cintra.

Although, of course, the fact he wasn't too bothered by the intrusive pieces was probably down to the fact he was about ten bottles in and was tired enough to be feeling suitably tipsy by the liquor.

Geralt's hands curled through his hair in the quiet, the two of them sitting a bit back from the main group as the two mages spearheaded conversation. It had been a while since Jaskier had felt so reassured, so comfortable, in someone's embrace that wasn't one of his own. The change was both refreshing and curious.

"I've got a game we can play," Lambert exclaimed suddenly, rocking forwards on his cushion as he raised his glass bottle. They were currently drinking the same brew from the earlier night at Twenty-Eight.

"What is it?" Eskel questioned as his brother stood and scuttled to the edge of the room, where the drinks were crouched in the shadow. There looked to be only a few bottles but Jaskier knew that was merely to save space, as Triss had placed an impressive subspace spell on the bottles so that touching one of the pre-set pieces gave you a bottle from within the subspace pocket. It was ingenious, and something that Jaskier had used much of during the Black War.

"A drinking game," the youngest Wolf crooned. He shoved his hand inside his bag and brought forth a clear glass bottle, bringing it with him to set on the coffee table in front of the couches. "Called 'Never Have I Ever'."

Triss groaned and flopped back against the back of the couch. "No, Lambert," she moaned dramatically. "You can't be serious."

Shifting to sit up, Jaskier sniffed at the air, picking up sharp spices and the hard scent of White Gull. He'd seen his boys play this game before, he was sure, and it always ended with them strewn about the floor in the morning, leaving an obstacle course for him to get to the tables for breakfast. Thankfully, despite the noise it created in the nights they played the mornings were always quiet and prime time for hard, vigorous training exercises. Albeit, he couldn't do the training days every time they played it or else they'd stop and he'd miss out on his fun, so it differed to every third game to when he was feeling particularly cruel.

"I'll play," he announced, drawing a bright grin from the boy. Geralt had perked up now and was leaning forwards too, hand coiled around his hip to ensure they both remained on the beanbag they'd been shunted onto whenever the couches had proved to be too small for all of them.

"Is this the statement game?" Coën asked, setting his own bottle down by his feet as he shuffled towards the coffee table. Eskel, sitting beside him, sighed in resignation.

" _That_ one?" But he set his bottle down nonetheless, leaning forwards.

"Are we getting shot glasses or drinking from the bottle?" Yennefer queried.

"Could we spell the shot glasses to draw from the bottle?" Jaskier popped in, doing everyone a favour and leaning forward to knock on the oak table. His magic wriggled through him, smoothing down the table's splinters and using the pillaged wood to form eight (in case Cirilla appeared part-way through their game) shot glasses. He spared a little burst of energy to allow the wood to transfigure into sparkling glass. Everyone gaped at him.

"How did you do that?" Triss spluttered.

"What was the cost?" Yennefer demanded.

He tilted his head at them. "It's simple magic," he said, quite unsure if the two sorcerers in his midst were going to jump him or not. "Basic transfiguration."

The two women looked at him incredulously, Triss on her feet in an instant to rove her fingers over his palms, seemingly searching for the slightest hint of peeled skin.

"How?" Coën spoke up. "Witchers can only use Signs. That was no Sign."

"Ah," Jaskier bemoaned, rolling his eyes in amusement. "There was once a time where Chaos did not demand payment. It was the humans who depicted those laws. I am old enough to be above such heedless dictatorship."

"Huh," grumped Triss, watching him with narrowed eyes as she linked the glasses to the bottle. Instantly they all filled to the brim. "If that isn't ageist, I don't know what is."

"Ageist?" Jaskier followed up, slightly amused. "It's not my fault I'm old enough to remember the Elven Wars. You're all little children to me."

"This is worse than fucking the old man, Geralt," Lambert sieged. "He's like a hundred years older than Vesemir - that's like dating your grandfather."

"I'm three hundred years older than your Master," Jaskier interrupted, quite miffed.

Most of the children choked. "What?" Someone muttered. "The fuck?"

Beside him, Geralt grunted and tightening his fingers around Jaskier's hip, spoke in a ruffled tone. "You were planning a game, Lambert."

The baby Wolf huffed a breath before ushering everyone to grab a shot glass. After curling up into his Wolf's lap, much like he had the other night when Geralt had braided his hair, Jaskier bent forwards, grabbing two - one for himself and one for his Wolf - and shared his bounty with his seat-mate.

"Alright," started the boy, navy blazer being slung over the back of his cushion. His muscles flexed through the thin navy button-up he sported. "To play this game, we'll go in a clock-wise rotation. I'll say something I've never done and then the others, who have, have to take the full shot. Game ends when we get bored or too drunk to carry on."

"Last one standing get anything?" Eskel prodded. "Last time you were offering up a Southern Gwent pack."

"Yeah, well I obviously don't have that anymore, do I?" Snipped Lambert, rolling his eyes. "Why do I have to be the prize-giver?"

"Because this is your game?" Yennefer reminded. In the light, her eyes twinkled black, her sharp toothed grin all encompassing. She was the picture of beauty.

"A crate of your best brew to the winner," Jaskier suggested.

"Nuh-uh," Lambert disagreed. "I barely have any left. I got six crowns."

"That's all?" Triss nudged him in the ribs.

"Fuck off," snarked the man. "Or do you wanna cough up something?"

"Oh no. I'm definitely losing."

"Where's your spirit?" Coën jested.

Jaskier sighed, patience thinning. "What does the winner want?"

"I'd sure as hell like a pair of new boots," Lambert grinned. Triss whacked him over the head with a pillow. The thump resounded loudly.

"Shut up, you idiot."

"Boots?" Yen snorted. "Really, Lambert?"

"How about a plaque," Coën said.

"Saying 'Best Drinker of the Year'," Eskel joked, clearly getting a rib in at his youngest brother.

Jaskier soaked up the atmosphere for a moment before clicking his fingers. All eyes shot to the golden, shining plaque sitting atop the coffee table. scrawled proudly onto its polished surface, sat the words 'Best Alcoholic'.

Lambert made a whooshing sound. "Low blow, man."

"You might've got his solar plexus," Eskel nodded, regarding the plaque with a raised eyebrow but a smile ever the same.

"Is that gold?" Triss leaned forward to check.

Jaskier saved her the time. "Highly polished brass - easier to form."

"I thought we were going to drink?" Geralt grumbled.

"We will," Jaskier rubbed at the white haired man's head. At a gentle flick, Geralt seemed more than happy to replicate the soft twining of his fingers through his hair once more - unable to braid properly due to the shot glass clutched in one hand. Suddenly unerringly content where he was, Jaskier clapped once. "Yes, hurry it along little Lamb."

"Ain't no fucking lamb," Lambert snarled but continued anyway. "Alright, never have I ever fucked a succubus."

Jaskier watched, intrigued, as Eskel took a long gulp, coming away hissing. "Fuck that stuff's strong. What percentage is this?"

Lambert grinned devilishly. "Some of my strongest stuff yet."

"Hard to beat 94%," Jaskier said.

"This stuff's 98."

"Great," Triss slumped, patting her lean waist. "Bye-bye kidneys, you were wonderful to have. I'll forever remember you."

"The succubus?" Yennefer prodded, smirking at her friend's dramatics. "I don't think I've heard that one before."

Eskel's ears burned red as he shrugged. "Took a load of fisstec and it just happened."

The room rippled with amusement. "Yes, that tends to happen when you go overboard with that," Triss laughed.

"Your turn, Esk," Lambert goaded.

"Never have I ever," Eskel started. "Nearly keeled over from potion toxicity."

It was clear his one was aimed at the witchers in the room. All of them - Coën, Geralt, Lambert and Jaskier - took the full gulp. It burned like hell had spat own his throat, settling uneasily on his tongue as the spice gnawed at him.

"Gods," Jaskier gasped, swallowing again in an attempt to rid himself of the aftertaste. "This shit reeks of peppercorn."

"All I had," Lambert choked back.

"Could we actually get drinking?" Yennefer asked, levitating her shot glass before herself. "I'd like to get drunk tonight too."

"No you don't," Geralt managed.

"How have you not nearly been done in by toxicity?" Coën asked, incredulous as he jabbed Eskel.

"I'm careful," smirked the man.

"More like obsessed," Lambert harrumphed.

The two brothers paired up. Coën spoke up hurriedly.

"Never have I ever woke up in a tavern alone with a killer hangover."

"Starting the night alone or with friends?" Geralt tried to shift.

"Waking up alone," the Griffin repeated, dead serious.

Everyone took a shot. The girls reeled from the alcohol, Triss going so far as to stick her tongue out and wave it about as she gasped for air. Yennefer withstood it better, face only twisting for a moment as the alcohol hit her tongue.

"Strong enough to sear the taste buds off you," she said lightly.

Jaskier smirked and looked to the sorceress as she mulled over what to say. Triss laughed out of the blue and he looked to her, thinking she was already high off her tail, but instead saw the two share a devilish look.

Yennefer smirked wickedly, looking straight to him. "Never have I ever been older than one thousand, five hundred years."

Everyone turned to look at him. Jaskier stared back. "How old do you think I am? I was born in the six-hundreds, not the five."

Triss sagged like a rag doll. Yennefer narrowed her eyes at him.

"C'mon," she goaded.

Jaskier hummed. "Never have I ever," fuck this was hard. He wanted one to target the girls but he couldn't of anything that wouldn't apply to him either (the girls' transfigurations for prettier bodies, for example, was changing your body with magic but Jaskier's own body had been changed too - by the Trials). He decided to go out on a limb, "Been in a foursome."

Yennefer and Lambert took a drink.

"Oh fuck," Eskel grunted as Lambert spread a wide grin across his face. "Don't start, Lambert."

"You're just jealous."

"I'm sure he is," Geralt snorted. "Not as if you bragged about this the entirety of that years' winter."

"Both of you," Lambert remarked. "Jealous as fucking bore. Just 'cause you two can't get a good fuck-"

Geralt cut him off with a chin shuck, beginning his piece. "Never have I ever kissed under mistletoe."

Lambert snorted at him, taking an exaggerated gulp of his shot. Triss followed after with Jaskier. His Wolf blinked at him.

"My boys enjoy annoying me when we're home for winter," he explained vaguely. The memory still lingered, even after all these years - Auckes hanging the mistletoe in an effort to catch them all out, Letho and Jaskier accidentally stepping under it whilst all the boys were there. They'd made a show to scare them off, leaving a few of the younger boys in a keen position to tease them for the rest of the month, but it had worked and Auckes had yet to hang mistletoe under a doorway again since. Of course, the deciding factor had probably been him getting pushed under it by his own brother, Serrit, and being forced to kiss Kolgrim. Both boys had came away looking mildly traumatised.

Triss was more than happy to power on in the silence, raising her shot. "Never have I ever _not_ fucked Geralt."

Lambert groaned and growled at her before taking a shot. The girls laughed as everyone else downed their glasses, turning to watch him with surprise as Jaskier finished his own too. Amused but unwilling to admit it, Jaskier turned to Geralt and pushed the man's glass towards his mouth.

"Unless you've fucked yourself you have to down one too," he chimed, sickly sweet. Geralt narrowed his eyes at him but cleared his glass.

"You two haven't..." Coën hesitated, quickly making hand motions.

"No," grunted his Wolf.

"But how?" Triss wailed, "The way you sit, the way you look at each other - how have you not fucked each other yet?"

Slightly uncomfortable, Jaskier shrugged. "Sex isn't a necessity."

The others seemed to choke. The two sorceresses leaned towards him and spoke as if they weren't in the middle of the room where everyone could hear them.

"Geralt likes sex," Yennefer said.

Triss added, "Like, a _lot_."

"Great," Jaskier intoned. "I'll be sure to remember that."

"Girls," Geralt rumbled threateningly.

They pouted, looking for a moment as if they'd go on. Lambert tugged Triss' hair and cleared his throat obnoxiously loud.

"Can we move on? As much as I love hearing about Geralt's sex life-"

"You're a hypocrite," Eskel bombarded.

"Hey, that's alright," Lambert grinned. "I understand jealousy needs an out, Eskie. And what am I here for but stress relief?"

"Ha ha," Eskel muttered. "Get on with it, then, you big fuck."

Lambert squawked, "Says you!"

They both glared. Coën patted Eskel's arm and broke them up.

With proffered bravado that Jaskier silently thanked, Lambert smirked and began the circle again. "Never have I ever fucked a goat."

Eskel gave a warcry and lunged, springing from his place to vault over the coffee table. "I did not, you bastard whoreson!"

Lambert gave a high, shrill laugh and jumped out of the way of a punch that had the couch creaking ominously.

Geralt tuned out his brothers rolling about on the floor to Coën's hysteria. Instead he focused on the sharp draw of Jaskier's shoulders, unhappy at how the older man had retreated back from the girls. They hadn't went too far, per se, but it had been enough to push Jaskier into an annoyed silence. Eventually, Yennefer spelled the two Wolves apart, urging the game onwards, although despite Jaskier's willingness to take the shots he remained quiet.

When it came to Eskel's turn and Jaskier had said his own past three turns with minimal usage of words, Geralt leaned down, slowly nuzzling the Viper and scenting him. He smelt frustrated, annoyed, so Geralt let his glass rest in a niche of the beanbag and began to softly braid Jaskier's luscious hair. The Viper slumped against him as Geralt grazed his fingers across his crown, pulling the beautiful long hair back to begin braiding up along the side of his head.

Jaskier really was stunning tonight, with his long green dress parting just right to hint at a long smooth leg. His pumps had been abandoned as soon as they'd left the ballroom, forgone for digging his feet into the soft fluffy rugs that littered the cold stone floor. The older man had begun the night beside him on the beanbag, slowly progressing to snuggling up beside him and then finally, to Jaskier nearly completely draped atop him, sitting - almost - the same way he had when Geralt had braided his hair last. In his lap the dress was soft as silk, creating a beautiful frictionless slide as the other man shuffled around to make himself comfortable. Geralt's favourite moment of this position was when Jaskier had leaned forth to grab them their shot glasses, his ass riding up along Geralt's lap as he'd moved, dress pulling taught to show just how fucking sinfully pretty he really was.

Immersed in braiding Jaskier's hair, Geralt let himself drift, sedate and happy, whilst he separated the long locks to begin the vigorous process of twisting it into something. Thankfully, he'd had a lot of practise on Ciri when she was younger, ensuing now that he didn't rip a chunk of Jaskier's head out, or worse, tangle his hair in unforgiving knots. Geralt would personally slap himself if he hurt Jaskier - the very thought alone enough to make him frown.

A soft, feather-light tap on his thigh brought him back to reality. He turned his head, their eyes meeting, sparkling amber to glittering gold and suddenly Geralt felt so warm that had he been stuck in a blizzard he surely would've survived. Jaskier smiled, nose digging into his jaw teasingly and opened his mouth. Geralt's breath cut short as he stilled to hear. "It's your turn, Wolf."

For a moment Geralt wondered if that was some sort of codeword, wondered - hoped - it was a suggestion to go somewhere because damn his trousers were feeling a little tight and soon they'd be tight enough for Jaskier to feel too. But then Lambert snorted so loud he sounded as if he was choking and Triss was tittering as she slapped his back in a half-hearted attempt for him to not choke. Geralt looked up and figured that it was his turn to play and they'd all seen his heart eyes for Jaskier.

"Never have I ever _not_ fully listened to Lambert."

It was obviously a joke but everyone was in on it as they raised their glasses high and downed them, even Lambert. Geralt picked up his glass, no longer idly forgotten on its place on the beanbag and decided to take a shot for the sake of it. The cool burn of the White Gull helped some of his embarrassment fade, giving him a kickstart into letting his glass settle back on its place and pulling Jaskier's chin to him. This close they were breathing each others air, mere millimetres away from kissing.

Geralt pushed forth.

And felt Jaskier melt into his chest, the side of his body going lax as they pulled each other in, both a needy whirlpool that tussled back and forth for dominance. Geralt wasn't making much headway on the kiss, even if Jaskier was biting at his lips, so decided to push his hands down, circling that waist and turning the other man bodily. Jaskier went easily, dress hiking up around his middle as he rocked forwards, legs splitting to straddle Geralt's hips just as he motioned. The Wolf's hands lowered, cupping that magnificent ass and squeezing as Jaskier rocked up into his broad chest of muscle, breaking away for air.

The door to the side room they'd snuck away to flung open. Jaskier took a single inhale and let his head fall to Geralt's shoulder, not even looking at the woman at the door. Ciri looked at them all, probably taking in how the drinking game had devolved to Yennefer and Lambert racing each other on drinks. Her giddy grin broke out when she fully took in Jaskier curled around him, still straddling Geralt. Geralt did his best to keep his dick down as Jaskier's warm breath flushed over his neck, the Viper's fingers calmly rubbing circles over his shoulders. He stared back at his Child Surprise, keeping his expression blank as she made amused googly eyes at them.

"I wondered where you'd all wandered off to," she smirked, entering the room. "Most of the guests have gone home. Am I too late for another round of drinking?"

"There's a shot glass for you," Jaskier hummed, making a vague sweeping motion behind himself, at the coffee table. Yen floated over the glass and everyone watched as Ciri downed it.

Her eyes watered. "Ooh, shit. That's good stuff."

"How 'bout we move this party elsewhere?" Lambert suggested.

"My place is open," Yen offered, glancing around at them all.

Geralt wasn't so sure he wanted to follow up, content as he was. Maybe this was all he needed in life, he mused; Jaskier by his side and a shot in his hand, his family around him.

"I'll take you up if your jacuzzi is on," Coën smiled.

"Count me in," Triss said, and therefore Lambert was agreeing too.

"Alright," Eskel grinned, standing up to stretch. He gave Geralt a look. "You coming, brother?"

Jaskier sat up, eyes burning through his soul for a moment. Geralt looked at him and knew he understood.

"We're fine," he said, waving them off with a pretty smile as he stood and twirled over to his shoes. "Have to go pick up Roach."

The others assented, waving them off with knowing looks as Yen opened a portal for them all. Geralt made sure to slap a particularly mischievous looking Lambert especially hard on the back. Ciri got a hug, from both him and Jaskier. Triss winked at Jaskier on her way out.

"So," Jaskier said in the silence. The plaque was gone, the only evidence of their drinking the bottles littering the room and the two shot glasses left behind for them. The Viper got rid of the glasses with a soft wave of his hand, turning to look at him with eyes of burning amber. "I heard Kaer Morhen has some beautiful hot springs."

Geralt took in Jaskier, assessed the look in his eyes, his half braided hair and couldn't help himself, "Not as beautiful as you. But yes, we do have some nice baths," he took a step forward, encircling Jaskier's waist once more. "I've found they're especially good for cleaning up."

The carefree laughter Jaskier burst into was more than worth making a fool of himself. The kiss he was pulled into afterwards confirmed that.

"Shall I portal us there?" His Viper asked, hand clutching his medallion. Geralt grunted and pulled him into a deeper kiss.

They stayed the night at Kaer Morhen. Because they were picking up Roach. (They might've visited the hot springs.)


	13. swapped her songs for swallows while riding on a broom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more history, geralt is a darling and jas shows his magic off big time, vesemir is just grateful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: swearing, on the Path, suicidal thoughts, themes of death & depression, excessive use of magic, referenced past death and the sacking of Kaer Morhen, trauma & PTSD, witchers being scarred , alcohol mention,

The year is 1892. Humans have forgotten them; monsters and mutants alike. Jaskier's hard on money, beginning to ponder the pros of staying in Gvaed and letting his boys out to do the work for him. The year is 1892 and Jaskier is tired of living.

He'd been taking a shortcut through some forests near Old Nilfgaard - now just another part of Cintra, after the Queen had re-emerged and claimed her right to the throne through some politics. It has a gaudy name, as much things do nowadays, but Jaskier can't quite seem to remember it so Old Nilfgaard it is.

The forests were nothing special, not anymore. Perhaps, once, they'd been great - large and full, like young women's breasts - but the land had drooped and in Cintra's takeover the arrogant people had moved in to tear down trees for firewood and more building materials. Nilfgaard's former people took the new leadership quietly, Cintra more than capable of quelling any riots before they hit mainstream. The people also didn't seem to mind seeing their forestry lands decimated in favor for bigger lanes for carts, roots and shrubbery yanked out of the land to make way for traders' stalls. Old Nilfgaard is much less greener than it was a few centuries ago but its economy is bustling and that's all the inhabitants seem to care about.

Maybe that was reason for why Jaskier was accosted by a territorial faerie in the middle of what forest remains.

He'd been on foot since those soldier bastards shot down his old girl, Mistletoe, but he was a witcher. Designed for stamina and durability. Walking was no chore, hiking was no penance. Not like he could get back atop a horse if he wanted - there's such a thing as trauma, he knew, and it's to blame for why he can't bare to be near a horse anymore. Not after the last once he got too close to shattered his leg so completely it took him _months_ to heal. His being on foot didn't leave him unprotected, per se, but walking through the forest at his pace wasn't exactly safe, either.

Jaskier was aware - ready, even - for bandits, or a foolish drunk. Someone, anyone, to walk into him on the road and challenge him to a brawl. Not because the road was full with people, deep in the path as he was there was no one around, but because that was the sort of mood he was in that day. Monsters of all kinds had retreated outwards, retreated to hollows and caves normal humans won't dare enter for fear of bears, and as aldermen were slowly fading out from existence, the need for witchers was too. To say Jaskier was happy would've been a gross over-exaggeration. He's positively _enraged_.

One moment he was walking along, blades reassuring on his belts, the next there was a woman standing in front of him. His medallion didn't hum, but he didn't need it to, he recognised what she was instantly. Shining, sparkling, ethereal-looking eyes the colour of ripe wheat; long shimmering violet hair, so deep if caught in a sunbeam it was like that of a blue hyacinth; a short cotton dress, old-fashioned compared to the new mortals' standards but fresh out of the wardrobe for Jaskier. He stared down the fae, boots coming to a stop on the dirt-pressed path. Very suddenly, he felt too warm. There was no breeze to cool him as the fae stared him through.

"Fae," he inclined his head the slightest but didn't take his eyes off the woman. It was imperative he didn't, if he wished to leave this land at all. Jaskier had only heard stories of the terrors fae caused; stories that were mostly whispered rumours because most who crossed their paths never made it out to tell the tale themselves. "I bring no harm, only hopes for safe passage."

The air stunk of old magics, ripe and sweet like an old elm tree. Jaskier remained where he was as the woman fluttered closer to him, eyes inquisitive as she looked him up and down. There was only one reason for her to be here - he was on her territory.

"Ah," murmured the woman, voice like that of a flower unravelling: soft and delicate, the sound almost sticking to her throat as the petals stuck to the stem. "Such kindness from a witcher. How ironic it is that the monster's being gentle when the humans are not."

"The mortals are arrogant," he'd said, heavy mood lifting and nearly vanishing as he observed and taken in the near translucence to the woman. Her grand wings stood at her back like that of a butterfly's, as bright and beautiful as the finest designs, coloured red and blue and green, each strip of colour pigmented like roses and irises and tulips. They looked jagged and dangerous yet at the same time they were the prettiest thing Jaskier had ever seen. "Blinded by their greed."

"Indeed," the fae had nodded. Her legs, never fully having touched the ground in the first place, kicked back and forth before a large clematis sprouted forth. The head wavered, twisting towards him with its little frilly inner nodes and for a moment Jaskier feared the fae had deemed him unworthy of passage through her territory and had decided to kill him.

_Peace at last,_ he thought and stood there, waiting for the killing blow.

But then, the woman had grabbed the stem and plucked a small bud from the flower, appearing in front of him to push it into his hands. Her touch was scorching hot but as he clasped her fingers to take the flower, he felt a deeper inner peace settle over him than he'd felt anywhere else.

She leaned close, breath whistling past his ear. "In remembrance of your safe passage, witcher, keep my flower."

With that, she'd vanished. He hadn't seen her again, even in the years later when he roamed through the forests in an attempt to give a friendly nod.

Jaskier kept the flower, preserved with his magic. He'd placed it in his rooms at Gorthur Gvaed, making sure it never wilted. His boys had smirked and asked who he'd weaselled it off of, asked who he'd seduced on his travels to have been gifted a flower of all things but after a glare or two they'd fallen silent. Sometimes he thought of the flower and even as his hands felt too hot, he felt happy.

He woke with a start, hands curling in his lap around something that wasn't there. Warm flesh lay beside him that, on further inspection, turned out to be Geralt. His pretty Wolf was staring down at him, curled towards him, bright golden cat slit eyes watching in a curious kind of silence. At the end of the Wolf's bed, Roach made a mewling sound as she stretched out, talons digging into the furs for all of a moment before she pranced towards him and settled in between the two of them, seemingly uncaring for their state of complete undress.

"Alright?" Geralt whispered, barely audible, voice gruff as soot. The sun had yet to peak through the open window, curtains undrawn to showcase the rough mountains of Kaer Morhen. They'd gotten carried away last night, he remembered, and by the time they'd settled he'd been too tired to be bothered portalling out with his Wolf. "You woke Roach."

Jaskier spared the dozing cat a glance and took that to mean he'd woken Geralt instead. At least it hadn't been a nightmare that resulted in him screaming or something of the like. In fact, it hadn't even been a nightmare.

"Had the weirdest dream," he managed, hands cold as he rocked closer to Geralt. At some point the furs had fallen to their waists, showing off the wide gap between their chests even if their legs were tangled up like ivy. Post-everything (post-sex) he felt relaxed, calmer than he did usually after getting it on with Letho.

"Was it nice?"

"The soap attacked me in the bathroom," he said, eyes flicking up to take in the other man's reaction. "It started fizzing in the sink - the lavender - and suddenly little soap men came out of it and tried to drown me."

Geralt stared. Jaskier stared right back.

"I won't let anyone drown you," and suddenly, in Geralt's arms, Jaskier hadn't felt safer. The Wolf leaned down and gave him a soft kiss on his forehead before curling closer, arm going out to flop over Roach and Jaskier's waist to pull them close. "Sleep. There's still a few hours before breakfast."

Vesemir looked at them both when they strode into the main hall with a small look of surprise.

"You stayed," he hummed, eyes briefly flitting over the shirt and jeans Jaskier wore that obviously weren't his. Despite his shock, he waved behind him - to the kitchens - and spoke. "There's more than enough stew left, Geralt."

As his Wolf disappeared into the kitchen to find them both food, Jaskier took a place to Vesemir's right. He nodded to the man, a dull headache making his nose sensitive enough that he could smell the fresh bread sitting on a plate before them from a mile away, should need be.

"Morning," he said for lack of anything better. He half wanted to comment on the other man's sleep but was half afraid that it would come out that he'd been kept awake by them somehow despite Jaskier's silencing charms. "Your keep is large."

"That she is," the younger man said, nodding as he scooped at his stew. The bread was unbroken on the plate, smelling alluringly fresh. "Although I'm afraid she's falling apart quicker than we can fix her cracks."

Jaskier hummed absently, tracking the movement in the room as Geralt returned with two steaming bowls. The boy sat opposite him, on Vesemir's left, and Jaskier gave him a grateful smile as a bowl was set in front of him. With everyone at the table, Vesemir reached out and broke the bread into three even pieces. He shared them out and Jaskier made sure to nod his thanks as he begun eating.

The stew was good. Not too bland but not too much to overwhelm a witcher's sensitive tongue. Jaskier had ate half of it before he realised what he was doing. Meanwhile, the bread was soft with a delicious crunchy shell that went down well with the stew. He had to hand it to the man - he could damn well cook. Maybe just as good as Gerring could.

"I could fix her up," Jaskier said, almost sudden, as they began to finish off. Vesemir stilled in shock as Geralt bored holes into his soul over his bowl. "Provided you don't mind me using a bit of magic."

Vesemir considered, old eyes staring at him. His gaze was heavy with age and Jaskier made sure to return the seriousness of his offer in his own eyes. "If you wish," said the Master of the Wolves. "Although, I'm not sure what a few Signs could do."

It was a challenge not to choke on his stew in his mirth. "Trust me," he assured after he'd finished getting his breathing under control. "I can do a far lot more than a few Signs, my friend. Would you mind giving me a tour?"

Vesemir was half certain Jaskier only wanted a tour when he proposed his idea. Now, the man was far from opposed to leading his elder around the keep but to insinuate he could fix it with a few Ignis sprung something deep in his gut that the old Wolf recognised bleatedly as annoyance.

"This hallway leads to the western part of the keep," he said, leading the man down the dust-ridden stone ways. Geralt was trailing along behind them like a lost puppy but Jaskier looked interested as he cast his gaze around. "It's mainly collapsed. We only come down to patch the wall from time to time."

"Prone to crumbling," Jaskier nodded as if he understood. The witcher probably did, seeing as he'd kept Gorthur Gvaed standing for centuries longer than most would've thought. Although, Vesemir was in doubt of the state of the keep. Just because it was standing didn't mean it was pristine - Kaer Morhen was a prime example of such.

"Could we stop here?" Vesemir turned to look at his fellow Grandmaster as they came upon a section where the hallway branched off into multiple corridors. All rooms, formerly for the boys who'd been training for the Trials. Most were ruins nowadays, having taken critical hits during the sacking.

He wasn't sure what he expected but the sudden thrum of magic that thrust through his body and seeped into the walls was not something he was prepared for. Vesemir's eyes widened as he watched Jaskier close his own and spread his hands out, as if a human searching for something in the dark. His medallion was beating a new heartbeat atop his chest, Geralt's doing the same from how the younger boy grabbed it to hold it still.

"Hmm. There's more than enough here," mused Jaskier. His eyes opened, runes Vesemir hadn't seem in centuries lighting his features as black tendrils like ink dripped from his fingers. With a start, Vesemir watched as the wisps of ink fell to the floor, pooling there before darting into the walls.

Kaer Morhen shook, the moaning wails of her stone being reformed echoing in Vesemir's ears. The man before him grinned something wicked, his eyes wide with glee and a feral baser instinct that was alien to most humans. Around them, the walls quivered, disappearing for all of a moment, looking like a collage of motion as each wall vanished, shooting up into the upper floors. A new room was revealed every second and in no time at all Vesemir could see the entire first floor, could see the benches from the main hall a while away, could see moldy and rotten bedframes littering the landscape left and right. A cruel breeze rifled through the floor, borne from the outer walls vanishing too. It was an eerie sight; one that had Vesemir swallowing heavily and standing his ground knees bending as if in preparation for a fight.

Then the walls returned, sprouting from the floors with mighty roars, shouldering their way into place like big teeth uprooting baby teeth. Jaskier's fingers were shaking as he raised his arms up high above his head, frantically chanting mantras in old elven. Walls reformed around them, Vesemir unable to blink as stone appeared, gleaming and new - as if cut fresh from the mountain. In the silence everyone's hearts pounded. The medallions hummed with residue magic.

Geralt stood, shellshocked. Likely a mirror image of Vesemir himself. The walls swayed in an unseen pool of magic, the scent of ozone was thick as tapestries rolled themselves along the walls, pilfered and restored from the stores. Thunderstruck, he watched as old carvings sprouted, plaques forming on the walls that had been destroyed in the sacking.

This was no simple Sign. Vesemir had never seen a witcher use true magicks.

Under them the floor flushed anew, the dust gone as doors reappeared in the slants of the corridors, the thump of dry wood signifying the reformation of beds and dressers in bedrooms. Stacks lined the walls, grandiose candles taking place as bright, blue fire Ignis took residence to light the previously dark paths.

If Vesemir squinted he could almost mistake the corridors for lines of will-o'-wisps, the little light creatures forming multiple pathways for old foolish witchers like himself.

"Next floor," Jaskier grunted, tone gritty. He strode forth, Geralt bumbling after him, to leave Vesemir in his wake.

He couldn't believe what he saw as he pushed open a random bedroom door. Inside, where there had never been a wall to separate three rooms since the sacking, there was now a single room, a simple spring mattress laying atop a wooden frame in the corner, wooden drawers standing firm beside the bed. It looked clean, ready for someone to move into, a quilt and piles of furs laying around the room. There was a vase on the drawers table, a lively gladiolus flower slanted in a cusp of water. Vesemir thought he must be dreaming.

But no, for every room he rushed to and opened, every single one was clean and looking brand new. As if thousands hadn't slept there, lay there before the Trials as young boys. There was a gladiolus in every room, every nook he looked - he distantly recalled his dear Countess Mignole saying it meant honor and strength of character and, occasionally, _remembrance_. He wondered if that was why Jaskier had chosen it.

In every room hung a large scroll, long and crisp around the edges, as if brand new. On every scroll swept the rules of Kaer Morhen in achingly familiar cursive, the ink smelling fresh and wet. He felt heavy and old as he crashed from room to room, eventually following the staircases to chase after Jaskier and his progress. New décor that blended seamlessly with the keep's walls stood, soft plush seats and shelving units standing in particularly large alcoves. By the time Vesemir had caught up with the magic sweeping through his keep, Jaskier was on the fourth floor.

He made it there in time to witness the walls slam down with ferocious, thundering roars. As tapestries and paintings lined themselves along the walls, Jaskier pushed forth, hands spread out in front of him once more. This continued on for the towers, Jaskier expending gratuitous amounts of magic as he fixed up walls, furniture and even the large, hole-prone rooftops. Alcoves found potted plants growing controlled in hand-formed jars and pots, books of literature and maps of the Continent filling up new shelves that lined wider, emptier hallways. Suddenly, in the lack of a cold breeze - in the space of a keep without holes or mold or grass growing in the cracks - Vesemir felt warm for the first time in years.

The air stunk of ozone, the scent of old magic curdling thick around Jaskier as he finally barrelled down to the basements, both Wolves stumbling after him. The determination in his eyes struck Vesemir anew, the old man caught unguarded by this force of nature roiling through his keep. Everywhere was cleaned, walls, floors and furniture reformed by the pure force of a witcher.

"How?" He worked up the spittle to clear his throat and ask. Deep in the catacombs of wine holds and excess armouries they stood, Jaskier's magic finally petering out as he finished the interior. Geralt had wandered off somewhere, told to check the library and other main rooms to ensure they were of good quality per Jaskier's order. The heady scent of good wine wafted towards his nose as the older man - and wasn't that a surprise, seeing as he looked younger than Geralt - poured him a glass out of thin air and offered it to him. Vesemir took it graciously, gently sipping it. It was an old one, a rich bottle from Beauclair he hadn't seen in centuries after a sudden flood had wiped out the distilling winery.

"Come along," Jaskier gestured as he stepped forth, leading them through passages Vesemir hadn't been in since he was a boy, running from Master Jovun's wrath at being pranked once again. The Viper swept through the sharp halls as if he'd been born here. Vesemir wondered if he could've been, had things been different, if whoever had left their child at a witcher's hands would've left him in theirs. "What do you wish to be done with the passages?"

Vesemir hurried to keep up, stride just a pace short of Jaskier's longer one. "I'm not sure what you mean, Jaskier."

"I'm asking if you want more added in or if you simply want the current ones restored to a suitable level - still hidden, of course."

Feeling foolish, he fought the burning of his ears. "Ah, would it be difficult to place a few new ones?"

"No. Where do you want them?" They came out one of the very passages into the depths of the courtyards. Upon entering the cool mountain air Jaskier's magic flared, casting gentle warming spells over the two of them. In the windy courtyard grass ruffled through cracks in the stone, the outer walls looked to be leaning inwards and the tree sprouting in the middle of the area was quite old.

As Jaskier stepped closer to inspect the tree, Vesemir spoke. "Perhaps one in the main bedrooms, a few in the common areas?"

"Can never be too paranoid," Jaskier nodded, callused fingers reaching out to stroke the tree's bark. "Do you want this tree allocated somewhere else?"

"Preferably," he agreed. He blinked and it was gone. The Master Viper's magic rolled forth once again, an oppressive wall of steam in this dismal weather of chilly draughts. The main wall quivered as it was rebuilt again, the inner courtyard changing to become new, the deep scores in the land disappearing - no longer a reminder of training lessons or the damned sacking.

Jaskier began to hum as they travelled through the outer rims of the keep, refurbishing the courtyards and adding new tunnels hidden by shrubbery for the new passages to leave through. By the time he was done, Geralt had caught up with them to confirm Vesemir's assumption that the quality would be more than standard and the sun was deep set, a sign of noon.

"That should be all," the Viper said, abruptly stopping his soft, lilting humming as they settled at the gate. From this spot, the keep looked brand new. Vesemir was lost for words. Jaskier turned on his heel, spinning to face Vesemir as Geralt looked around himself. "I've set up some wards around the first predators' mile so you'll be informed if any creatures come too close, along with a few preservation and protection wards. Keep the flowers in the vases and the inner circle of protection spells will remain strong. All buildings within a mile have been restored."

Vesemir's old throat wouldn't work for him so he stepped forwards and gripped Jaskier in a crushing hug. The Viper drew in a sharp breath, tense as a board before relaxing into it and patting his back.

"It was the least I could do," waved off the man. "There's no reason why your keep can't be in top condition, I've merely sped along the process with a bit of exertion."

He caught his voice. "You and your boys will always be welcome here."

Looking pleasantly surprised, Jaskier offered a small grim smile. Somehow, Vesemir knew that was what a genuine smile looked like from this man. He regained use of his arms and split from him with one final back pat, pulling himself up as he shook hands with his fellow Grandmaster. His chest felt fit to burst, he felt lighter than he had in years, lips pulling back easily for a grin.

"Thank you, Jaskier."

"Don't worry about it," hummed the man, curling his long brown hair back over his shoulder. He looked to the side as Geralt reappeared with Roach. His eyes were bright and he smelt fond. "I suppose that's my signal to go. Have fun in your keep, kiddo."

Jaskier twirled over to Geralt, slinging an arm through his as he thumbed his medallion. Then they were gone in a rush of magic, disappearing as soon as they'd arrived. Vesemir looked back to his keep and decided he needed a few bottles of wine to celebrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER: the soap is mean


	14. now listen here ye old soul, hereth lies my soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you know who makes an appearance (no, not voldemort) and letho thinks jaskier's overly paranoid until suddenly he's thankful he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGERS: intended death attempt - as in, attacked. themes of depression/desperation, threats, fire, psychological horror, injury, Stregobor, attempted murder, paranoia

The apartment was quiet as they portalled in. Beyond the walls, the city was hushed, the normally busy mid-day clamor dulled to a mere buzz. Geralt made to take his shoes off but Jaskier stilled him, raising his head to scent the air. He felt unexpectedly skittish, not something he was used to feeling at Twenty-Eight.

As the first scent hit him head on, he hissed, involuntarily taking a step back as his eyes landed on the bar of lavender soap on the island. Geralt was silent, eyes snapping to the soap as if it had threatened him.

Jaskier kept a tight grip on his Wolf's arm as he leaned forwards, following another scent. Raspberries. Under the heavy lull of lavender there was the soft scent of raspberries and under that—

"Back!" He commanded, Quen springing to life in front of them both. Geralt stumbled back with his push, quickly widening his stance as his hands hovered over the dagger in his belt. His knees bent in preparation for a fight.

The Wolf growled. "What is it?"

"Bomb, I think," he grunted, manipulating the Quen to split into two shields, forming skin-tight close bubbles around them both, making sure to include Roach in Geralt's. His nerves were humming under the surface of his skin, his stomach twisting into knots as he stepped near the bar of idle soap.

A few inches big, it sat, a gleaming violet colour to it as it remained unmoved. The grasp of lavender was uneeringly thick, leading Jaskier to believe it had been made that way on purpose - as if to hide the smell of the churning magic inside. An unmistakable thick cusp of ozone and tingly straw-like smell.

However, it hadn't reacted to the burst of magic he'd used to create the Sign, nor was it reacting now. The active spell should've done something. Irritated, he reached out for it, feeling its rough exterior dimly past the Quen. His magic linked with it for all of a moment and his knees quaked as heat rushed him.

The island went aflame. Roach let out a cat-like screech from her place upon Geralt's shoulder, hissing fitfully as her back bent, only calming at a ruffle from her witcher. Jaskier could only watch as bright ivory flames burst from the bar of soap, flushing outwards to quickly envelop the marble island in a matter of a blink. Geralt choked something vulgar behind him as Jaskier grabbed hold of the water in the pipes and tugged it forth to coat the fire.

The fire spread to the floor, thick flames munching through the wood in a way neither of them had ever seen fire do. The water had done nothing.

It was an old spell, one pilfered from the elves - as most spells were. Once the spell of Eating Flames had been used to clear out mineshafts for the elven people to access the ore they required, to clear out mossy caves to make room for their extensive libraries, but it had fallen out of usage as the flames never stopped burning until what it was set to burn was all gone - a tedious fact that resulted in many caves collapsing from their supports being chew out from under them. The books he'd read of on it were unsure if water worked against it.

Evidently, water was useless.

"Fuck," Geralt snarled behind him, stepping forth to use a Quen of his own forming to push down on the flames and smother the fire. Physics decreed fire could not burn without oxygen.

The Quen burst into the ivory, Geralt quickly dissipating the Sign as the fire roared and absorbed half the magic. They stuttered back as the flames began ploughing towards the cabinets. Smoke filled the room, failing to touch them past the Quens, until it didn't and their throats were burning with every inhalation.

Physics didn't work against magic.

Jaskier had never seen this fire before but he'd most certainly heard of it.

"It's magic eating," he yelled over the groans of the ivory fire. The entire kitchenette was nearly up in flames, the smoke alarms not even registering the thick smoke that clouded the room. Above them, it swirled like a demon ascending from hell, the fire below acting as the gates. "There's nothing we can do."

His potions would go up too, especially since they were protected by non-fire charms. The ivory fire would bite through that and then all his extremely explosive potions would send the rest of the apartment up, if not the entire complex. Jaskier knew a lost fight when he saw one.

"We have to go," he gripped Geralt's hand once more, tugging at his medallion.

"Medallion: One."

Nothing happened. Jaskier's heart began to pound at a beat it shouldn't have. Geralt's eyes twitched and they would've been wide had he been able to do so without the smoke invading them.

Choking on smoke and saliva, he summoned again. Maybe the wards were resetting at Gvaed? Travel never worked when that happened. Except it wasn't the first of the month. No matter—

"Medallion: Sixteen!"

The fire was nearing. The cabinet the potions were in began to fade as the flames bit at it. They needed to leave, they needed to go, why wasn't his travel stream _working?_

"Medallion: Twenty-One!"

Geralt tugged them down, lower to the ground as the smoke thickened drastically, forming tears in their eyes. With dread, Jaskier realised if they didn't get out now they'd die. He didn't mind death so much, but he wasn't about to lose Geralt - the Wolf had too much to live for.

They looked at each other, both seeming to have come to the conclusion that it was now or never. Jaskier took a firm grip on his Wolf's ankle as Roach was tugged off her place on Geralt's shoulder in exchange for Jaskier's lap. He rhymed off every location he knew, adding in a few unlisted ones for the sake of desperation as Geralt battered at the door, kicking and shoving. Crouched low they must've looked a sight, eyes reddened, one man screaming at his necklace as the other screamed and hammered at the door, a cat curled weakly in the brown haired man's lap.

It was that moment Stregobor chose to appear, his burst of magic drawing both witchers' attention as he formed in the middle of their burning lounge. The mage kicked away the alight coffee table and smirked cruelly at them.

"My, my, it seems you have a bit of a predicament here." He didn't cough, didn't make note of how the smoke was seemingly wafting into his eyes. His smug tone made rage bubble up, forcing the Viper's spare hand into a tight fist. Jaskier growled at him, remaining hunkered low as Geralt gave up on the door.

"Face us yourself, mage!" He shouted, voice shrill with rage. "You're nothing but a coward - come see your handy work in person!"

The mage laughed, a loud, booming thing that made Jaskier's head hurt. The fire rippled with it, seeming to grow louder and more fierce as it swayed back and forth like waves personified. It rocked onwards, spiralling down the hallway, destroying their livelihoods as it chomped its way through the apartment with a ferocity that would make mortal men quail in terror. In seconds, they were surrounded, a brief circle surrounding him and Geralt as Stregobor cackled at them through the flame.

Jaskier's knees touched the wood of the floor as he choked on the sudden flurry of smoke. The Quens failed, flickering out of existence as the heat hit them head on, making them both pant. Roach weakly pawed at his thigh before falling worrisomely limp.

"Is this your version of a joke?" He managed to grit out, lungs feeling heavy as he tried to pull forth his magic. It felt as if there was a wall inside himself, blocking him out. His medallion was cold metal against his chest while Geralt's was positively dancing as it reacted to the magic in the air.

"Alas," chirped Stregobor. "I do believe this is the end for you both. Enjoy your final moments, Snake, Butcher."

A heavy wave of magic crashed over them as the mage's illusion vanished. The smoke was pushing them down towards the only air left, leaving them inches from the ground despite how Jaskier tried to push against it with magic he couldn't seem to feel.

Geralt was gasping beside him, callused fingers curling around his own. Jaskier looked at him and found acceptance in those eyes, found resignation weighing down the determination.

Tears rolled down his cheeks from the smoke as he butted their foreheads together. "I love you," he coughed. Roach gave a feeble mewl.

"I love you too," admitted the Wolf. He pulled Jaskier close to him, managing a kiss as the charms on the potions finally gave way and the apartment crashed outwards in a flurry of flame, taking his awareness with it.

Jaskier was a paranoid man, Letho had always thought. When he'd created the magic to link the medallions to travel destinations after Kolgrim had had a few sharp situations, Letho had simply waited for the catch.

The catch; the medallions were linked to the wards. Therefore, if the wards were resetting somewhere, you wouldn't be able to portal there until they settled. Such an instance had happened once with Letho himself and he'd made sure to complain about the fact it had forced him to portal to Gorthur Gvaed instead of his cottage (which he'd obtained through the Law of Surprise, but for all the others knew some rich man he'd rescued had given it to him because _damn_ did Jaskier despise the Law). A few days later, Jaskier had gathered them all and informed them they would feel what was happening to the wards, so long as they wore their medallions.

Everyone wore their medallions twenty-four-seven.

Letho was in the middle of buttering himself a jam sandwich when the wards at Twenty-Eight followed their usual schedule and reset. The humming of his medallion was nothing new so he played it off, sitting down to finish Lost in Space because according to Ragnar, Jaskier had finished the entire new series and _that_ was unacceptable.

Usually the wards reset on the first of the month, but Twenty-Eight held a weirder schedule in which the wards could only reset when Jaskier wasn't there. Of course, this meant that once monthly Jaskier _had_ to leave the apartment, and it just so happened this time had fallen when he was away in Cintra, getting wooed by the Wolf.

Their wards reset monthly due to the fact that Jaskier was paranoid. This was his way of ensuring his boys were safe even with him being half the Continent away. Because with the wards resetting, the magic made sure their current places of residence were clean and up to the task of living; which usually meant Gerring found the stores at Gvaed severly deplenished after the resets (because apparently none of the youngsters could keep their fridges stocked to a level the spells found suitable and also because the main hub for the wards was Gvaed, meaning it drew resources from there).

As it was, Letho had felt the wards reset at Twenty-Eight and had nodded to himself. He'd finished the Lost in Space series and had moved on to watch one of Lanir's recommendations - which turned out to be some shitty anime that wasn't even half decent and was way too pervy for his own tastes. Then, he watched some series Auckes had said was good, paused it in the first ten minutes, and resolutely decided to stop listening to the other's recommendations because they were all shit.

Safe to say, Letho had not expected to be pulled out of his lunchtime meditation by Twenty-Eight's wards resetting again. At least, as he burst onto his feet, they _had_ to be resetting. Except they felt weird.

So Letho pulled on a cotton shirt and a pair of his leather jeans before portalling over, fully expecting to find Jaskier brooding and moaning about something the Wolf had done. The wards shifting, he reasoned, was probably him expelling Geralt.

He grinned anyway and cracked his knuckles in preparation for the beating he looked forward to giving the Butcher of Blaviken. Time to test the metal, apparently.

"Medallion:" he grunted. "Twenty-Eight."

The portal opened up on the street. Letho blinked and looked to his right as fire trucks wailed, the brightly dressed men holding hoses as they tried to combat a fucking silver swathe of fire.

Jaskier's apartment complex was on fire. Said fire was magical fire, because the water was not doing anything for it. And it was silver. Normal fire was not silver.

Suddenly filled with horror, Letho looked up. The entire building was alight. The wards hadn't been resetting; they'd been burning down. If the wards had put up such a fight as to be felt through the medallions then that meant one thing.

Jaskier was still inside.

"Shit," he spat, cursing how he'd left his phone back at his cottage. He couldn't call for help so that meant he had to work quickly. He'd have to complain that the medallions needed to be communiques too - if he survived, that is.

Aware he was standing in the middle of the street, countless other civillians gathered around to gawk up at the building, he stepped back, blending into the shadows. In the dark husk of an alleyway he scaled the wall quickly, darting across the rooftops quick enough that anyone watching would only see a blurr for a brief second.

He jumped around the buildings, managing to jump into the burning complex thanks to a shattered window. He was around two floors too low but so long as he was inside, Letho didn't care. He rushed along the sweltering hallways, quickly finding that the fire gobbled up magic quicker than it did wood as his Quen failed all too quick.

Letho took the burns, only imaging what state Jaskier was in if the third-most top floor was filled with the ivory fire. He could barely hear anything over the roars of the flames, though he never would say his ears were his best attribute. Although, even then he could barely smell anything over the singe of his own flesh and the blistering wood.

He continued, mindlessly barrelling into the stairway, jumping five steps at a time, only slowing when he nearly rookied his ankle. Finally, he made it to the top floor. The door at the top of the stairwell was gone, fire screaming around it. It almost seemed as if there was a tunnel of fire as he sprinted past; fire that lashed out towards him as he picked up on laboured breathing.

At the end of the corridor, he found the sole door still standing and cursed his luck. Deciding to risk it, he pulled out an Aard and the door crumbled.

If the hallway had been a ring of fire, the apartment was its den. He could see nothing past the initial output that rushed towards him, putting him on his knees unless he wanted facial burns. He army crawled into the apartment, seeming to go for miles before he came across what he dreaded.

The Wolf, at least, had made himself useful and draped his bulk over Jaskier to protect the slimmer man. Letho forced his way to them, the skin on his arms peeling as he rocked up to them. He had no time to check if they were both breathing as he gripped Geralt's arm and then his medallion.

"Home," he got out, envisioning Gvaed just like Jaskier had instructed for them to do when they couldn't use the whole command.

The stone floors of the keep rushed up to meet them, Letho knocking his burnt knees painfully as he leant up for air.

No one was in the main hall. He sucked in a spluttering breath and screamed, "Gerring get Ragnar!"

With that settled he stooped over his quarry, quickly noting how the cat was alive, the Wolf's breaths were laboured and Jaskier wasn't breathing at all. Fright seized him as he rushed to get the white haired man off his Master and get the man himself onto his back. There was a pulse, at least.

Gerring skittered into the room just as Jaskier coughed himself back into the world of the living. It had taken three emergency breaths.

"By the gods," the elder gasped, quickly dropping to his knees as he took in the bad burns along Jaskier's arms and legs; no bone showed but with the blackened edges they easily could've been third degree. He was a state, the clothing having melted into his wounds, soot covering what wasn't burnt. Bleakly, he reminded Letho of what he'd seen of the boy chimney sweeps when he'd done a contract on a large estate once. Those kids had looked blacker than black with all the soot on them, now Jaskier was a mirror image. "Ragnar's on his way. What happened?"

"Felt the wards reset, thought I'd go see what was wrong, " he managed to growl out. "Showed up to have the magic buffer me onto the street. Found the entire complex on fire."

Letho rocked back on his heels, feeling the burns on his calves stretch unpleasantly. Assured now that someone else was here to watch over the shallow-breathing Jaskier, he shifted on over to the Wolf to ensure their Master didn't get disappointed about his toy dying.

"On fire?" Gerring echoed as a flush of magic signalled Ragnar's arrival. He broke off to shout, "Main hall!" before turning back to cradle Jaskier. "Why didn't he portal out?"

"It was silver," Letho grunted, hacking up a cough as he assessed the burns on the Wolf's back. He wasn't near dying. "And stunk of magic just as much as it sucked the shit up."

"Sounds like Eating Fire," Ragnar huffed as he twisted into the room in a hurry, wincing at the state of them on the floor. Tarviel bundled along after him, clutching a rack of potions to match the wooden box in his elder's grip. Ragnar knelt between the Wolf and Jaskier, obviously deeming Jaskier as the worst as he leant towards him. "Do you know how long he was in for?"

Letho grunted as his insides shrivelled at the horror doning on Tar's expression. "Had to give him a few breaths, wasn't breathing."

"Damn it," Ragnar hissed, checking Jaskier's eyes as he felt around his head. "No concussion," he assessed. Tarviel couped over the Wolf, steadying himself beside Letho as he checked over the other witcher. Ragnar made an odd sound. "From his pulse I'd assume magical exhaustion. Was the fire large?"

"You not listening?" Letho griped, dutifully downing the Swallow Tarviel pushed into his hands. "The entire damn building was up. Could barely see the floor."

Conversation stilled for a moment as Jaskier suddenly quivered, head rolling as if he was looking around. Ragnar placed a gentle finger to his cheek, rubbing a circle into his skin in some forlorn action that he evidently hoped would calm him. It had the opposite effect.

Jaskier rocked upwards, back hunching as he curled into himself as he sat up. His eyes were wide as he cast his gaze about, not really seeing as he scanned his surroundings frantically. Letho bit his tongue as those bloodshot red eyes spiralled to him before dipping to the Wolf in front of his knees. Their Master lifted a burnt hand up, reaching for the Wolf just as he twisted his head to the side, body shaking as he made an aborted cough, showing off just how raw his throat was.

"Jaskier," spoke Ragnar, voice ever so quiet, tone even softer. His hands strayed out warily, all of them careful to not move too quickly in the face of a disoriented Viper. "Can you look at me?"

The man's head swivelled, as if on a stick. He jolted forwards and lost balance, catching himself on a badly burnt hand despite Ragnar's - seconds too late - stretch. Letho had never heard a noise so full of pain from the man before him, not even when he'd been stabbed through his shoulder during that training exercise a few decades ago. But this low, drawn out, ragged sound, made Letho's heart hurt as Jaskier reeled back, blinking at his hand once. Then his eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he fell like a sack of potatoes.

Ragnar only barely caught him, saving his head from cracking off cool stone.

"Shit, shit, shit," became the medic's new mantra. He scooped a arm under both Jaskier's neck and his lower waist, resulting in him bent over the older man as he gripped his own medallion. "Medbay."

They disappeared for a moment, sound rushing through the keep from the medbay a few corridors along confirming their arrival. Letho grunted, hauling the Wolf up into a clutch despite his burns and Tar's protests. He motioned to the cat and the boy hurried to scoop up the feline.

"Gerring," he side-eyed the older man. "Get the door."

"Oh, no," protested the man. "You are not dragging burnt wolf through the halls _I_ have to walk through daily. Just portal him like Ragnar did."

Letho gave a longer, more menacing growl. "The door." And then, at the man's despairing look, he added, "I'll even clean it up later."

"You'd better," threatened the man, striding over to shove the wooden doors open after they'd clattered closed at Ragnar and Tarviel's hasty entrance.

Letho rolled through, Tarviel scrambling after him with the now-black cat.


	15. when we wake we learn the bad things never go away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some banter w/the bois, the traitor is revealed, our viper babes are angry and jas is sore  
> and, a surprise guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> go check out my 11k word baby in the next part of the series, I worked hard on it :)
> 
> TRIGGERS : swearing, severest injury, betrayal, scarred witchers, burns, threats, implied PTSD

Letho lumbered into the medbay as Ragnar began cleaning Jaskier's wounds. Tarviel hurried after him with the cat clutched in his arms, giving a useless hiss as the older man dumped their Master's Wolf on the cot nearest the wall, furthest away from Jaskier. There was only three cots in the large room, despite there being room for over a dozen, but Ragnar liked to keep things clean and a dozen unneeded beds were a chore for Gerring so three it was. The consolation that Master could always form a few more seemed dull now, seeing as he was on one of those beds, burns littering his form.

Tarviel settled the cat at the foot of the Wolf's cot, noting how Letho had been considerate enough to put the man on his stomach due to the burns on his back. Evidently, he felt guilty for leaving him on his back earlier.

When he looked up, the bald Viper was standing in front of the middle cot, watching from an angle as Ragnar used a Griffin Sign to cup clean water in a ball and run it over Master's burns, sucking out the dirt and soot before he could administer the bandages. Sometimes Signs really were useful.

"Do I need to manhandle you into the cot or are you going yourself?" He questioned Letho.

The man gave him a look, grunting. "When did you become the apprentice medic?"

"When you charged into my base and brought the roof down with you," he chimed back, already pushing the larger man towards the cot. "C'mon now, I'll get you a coffee, if that helps."

"No coffee," Ragnar gritted out from his hunched position over Jaskier. Master looked cleaner now, even if it was only a few of the burns that were cleaned - although they _did_ take up nearly the entirety of his arms and legs - but he looked so pale, brow scrunched in pain. "Sit down, Letho."

"Was gonna go get a shower," protested the man.

"Not with those burns," fired back the resident medic. (Or as medic-y as a dentist could get. Whatever - the man had been their go-to field medic for centuries and he'd even taken courses for this shit so he was better than nobody. Plus, the dentist thing was only a few centuries old.) "Get your ass on that cot and we'll see how good Tarviel is at the Clutch Sign."

Tarviel let himself grin a little dangerously as he rifled up a basin of clean water, alongside an empty bucket to drop the dirty water into. Letho scowled at him but dropped onto the bed, eyeing the water as Tarviel rocked up beside him, stool and all.

"Let's try on some soot first," he suggested, pulling magic through him as he formed a gentle cupping gesture over the water. To his delight, a bubble of clean water rose to greet him, keeping its form as it remained spherical in his hand. "It's like a roll-on."

"Roll-on what?" Letho leaned forwards, offering a sootied hand to clean first. Seeing as his arms from his elbows and his knees to his calves were burnt, Tarviel took the easy starter without complaint.

"Roll-on water," he hummed, gently moving his water over the soot. The bubble flushed black as the soot was sucked into it, leaving where it touched clean and dry. "Except it's a shower and a towel-down all in one."

Letho snuffed a snort. "Make me smell nice too, does it?"

"Well," he apprised, leaning back to drop the dirtied water bubble in the bucket before scooping up a new Clutch. "It can't make you smell any _worse._ "

"Brat," the bald scoffed, taking a lax swipe at his head that Tar easily dodged. Beside them, Ragnar let out a huff of mirth.

"Hey, you getting slow in your old age, baldie?" He jested, softly moving on to the burns.

Letho only hissed for a moment. The Sign quickly filled and Tarviel found himself replacing it thrice just to clean one section of his arm. "Better not call me old, I'm positively child-like compared to Gerring."

"Where's he floundered off to?" Tarviel remarked, finally working up to Letho's elbow. He moved the other man's arm as gently as he could, barely using his fingertips to indicate necessary motion.

"Probably making more stew or panic checking the potion stores," Ragnar muttered, shifting over Jaskier as the man let out a low moan. The medic made a shushing sound, curling a finger through the man's hair as his breathing picked up to a skittering rate. It took a tad too long to calm. "How's Letho looking?"

"Alright," Tarviel acquiesced, squinting dramatically up at the man's face as he worked on swallowing down his worry. "Head isn't as shiny as usual but I think we can mark that one off on old age."

"Fuck off," the man grunted, playfully batting at him. "Hurry up and do my legs so I can shower." Ragnar didn't have to lift his gaze from Master to make his displeasure known. Letho hurried to add, "After I get these sealed."

"How do you plan to seal them?" Tarviel snickered. "The Swallow will only work so fast. Might as well let me do your face too."

"Fine," grumped the asshole. "Go fuck yourself while you're at it."

Tarviel whistled lowly. "Someone's moody."

"Someone ran through a burning building today," Letho rolled his eyes before becoming serious. "He didn't portal out."

"You think—" Tarviel hesitated to voice his fear.

"No," cut in Ragnar, shifting as he moved down to Jaskier's legs. "He wouldn't have pulled that, not with the boy there. Maybe if he was alone he'd have left it but not with others."

"His medallion was giving him trouble, before. We may not have completely fixed it." Gerring announced his arrival as he skulked into the room. He took note of what was happening and summoned up his own two basins of water, briskly getting to work on the knocked out Wolf. "It could be that Stregobor knew this."

"But how did he get into Twenty-Eight?" Letho queried, asking what they were all thinking.

"The wards wouldn't have let him in," Tarviel said quietly. "And we would've felt him battering against them."

"We've got an insider then," snarled Ragnar, tone dark. Jaskier made a low, hurt sound and he abruptly sunk into low, calming murmurs, slowing his pace in favour of keeping the man comfortable.

"One of the Wolves?" Tarviel wondered aloud.

"Couldn't be," Gerring shook his head, hair flying around him in a halo for all of a moment. "They wouldn't get in unless Jaskier willed it or unless Geralt was there. We've got a classic inside job right here, lads."

"But who?" Tarviel burbled in the silence. "Who would? Pietr would never, he's too attached, same for most of the others."

"We're not talking attachments here, kid," Gerring said. "We're talking who's been more secretive, who's been acting weird, who's been blanking us more than usual, that sort of thing."

"There's a possibility Jaskier already knows," Ragnar noted. "If the insider placed the spell there he would've picked up on their scent."

"Bastard probably didn't think he'd survive," Letho growled so fiercely the cot shook. Tarviel tapped his boot as he moved onto his other leg. "Not many would."

They worked in a dull silence for a bit after that, the three working on using Clutch to clean the wounds as best they could. Tarviel tried not to wince as he spied Ragnar peeling the burnt skin away from Jaskier's knees, watching the man's expression darken.

"Third degree?" Letho spoke in the pause. The way he said it, it wasn't even a question, just a bland drawl of resignation.

"Yes," Ragnar huffed, pulling away clumps of dead tissue with tweezers, dropping them into a metal bowl atop the cot. "Both knees. He's probably thumped into the fire without realising it. How's his Wolf?"

"Back's bad," reported Gerring. "No third degrees from what I can see although there's a lot of burn coverage. They're lucky. I think the only one untouched is the cat."

"Cat still alive?" Tarviel asked, sparing the soot-ball a glance as he finished up cleaning Letho off. He flicked the man's forehead as he made to get up and turned around to grab the gauze and bandages from the cabinets by the cot's sides.

"Yeah," squinted Gerring, leaning over the feline. It's paw twitched. "Ah, yeah, she moved. I'll clean her when I finish up here."

"Good, I hate cats," Ragnar sighed.

"That's only because they're cuter than you," Letho snorted, abruptly tittering off into a coughing fit. He coughed for a good while, Tarviel hurriedly thumping him on the back in an effort to help. The man snarled when he finished. "Water instead of hitting me, maybe?"

"Go fuck yourself," Tarviel snapped, looking up to take orders. The other two nodded so he abandoned Letho with a firm "stay put, asshole" and ventured out into the keep to find some bottled water.

As he walked, he worried. If there was an inside mole within them, anyone could be it. Tarviel knew for a fact it was not Ragnar, for he'd been with him the entire time this past week - aside from when he'd went to check up on Master. But the older man would never hurt Jaskier purposefully, they got along well and he hadn't been acting weird. He had nothing to gain from Jaskier's death; he had no life outside of this, aside from his small dentistry.

It certainly wasn't Gerring. The old coot was _way_ too emotionally attached and he barely left the keep as it was. He wouldn't try to kill Master only to help him now, he wasn't like that.

Letho wasn't even in the running. There was no one alive more loyal to Jaskier than him.

Tarviel mulled this over, rifling through the cupboards as he came across a pack of water bottles. Grabbing them, he hauled them out and began his trek back to the medbay.

What if he was being too present? What if this mole had been around for a while? Whose behaviour had changed in the past month? In the past year? In the past _decade?_

Sure, maybe Lanir had grown more mature and Ilester had come to enjoy dad jokes more than anyone rightfully should but who could he say for sure had changed? People changed as they aged, he knew. It would've been weird for anyone to _not_ have changed.

Tarviel strode into the medbay, handing out the bottles of water until only he was left. He set the remaining bottles in the pack on the floor and uncapped his bottle.

Stregobor. He'd first made himself known at Ragnar's place, when Master had stumbled in, in a panic over them only to drop from his own curse. Was it coincidence he'd been with the Wolf's lot before that had happened, like now or was there something to it he was missing?

That day they'd first been made aware of the mage's threat. What had happened? He couldn't remember much past the adrenaline of Quens being thrown up, illusions crashing down on them and the mage striding through their formation like it was nothing—

His thoughts stuttered to a halt. Jaskier had drilled those formations into his head, like he had for the others. What was the one thing he said about them; _if one person messes up, the entire formation is broken._ _Do not be that person._

The mage had walked over them like dust because the mole _had_ been there. The only way he could've broken through them so quickly, from the front would have to be if the insider had been on the front that day.

Who had been in front: Ilester, Tarviel himself and Serrit.

He choked on his water. Letho smirked at him, mouth opening for a quirky jab but he rushed over him, words feeling molten hot in his mouth, like a volcano erupting.

"I know who it is." Tarviel spluttered, dread and horror filling him as he wondered how long they'd been betrayed for. "I know who the insider is."

All eyes shot to him.

Ragnar sat in the main hall, breezily picking at his stew as Tarviel and Letho bickered over his head. The revelation that they'd been betrayed by one of their own hurt, maybe moreso than coming to the understanding that Jaskier _wasn't_ indestructible (even though, logically, he already _knew_ this). To see the man he regarded as a father of sorts, burned and aching, made his own soul writhe in agony.

"I'm just saying, if you'd get your head out of the gutter," Tarviel started. "That you probably shouldn't wear leather jeans."

"It's because my ass distracts you, right?" Letho leaned forwards, guzzling down his stew quickly. He dropped the empty bowl on the table and stood, the hands that went to his hips showing the white of his bandages starkly. The man showed no pain but Ragnar knew he'd have to keep an eye on him. The asshole could be damn stubborn if he wanted to.

"I actually prefer Pietr's," Tarviel snarked. "But if you want to play pretend I'm all up for it."

"Very funny, Squirt." Letho seemed ready to pounce on his brother before rethinking his actions. He knocked his chin back, grabbing a water bottle to squish dry. With a sigh he chucked the crumpled plastic at Tarviel's head. "When do we think Jask's gonna wake?"

Ragnar looked to him, shaking his head. "Anywhere from today to a week, you know what he's like."

Gerring grunted, cracking his knuckles suddenly. "What do you say we go pay the _boy_ a visit?"

Tarviel blinked. "Just checking, but we're not talking about Master, right?"

And that, somehow, was how Ragnar ended up dragged into the excursion party; in which the entire keep's awake participants were involved in. This is how they ended up in a certain _traitor's_ lounge, idling as they waited.

Ragnar, of course, had taken prime of the kettle and had boiled himself a cup of tea, making one for the others whilst he was at it. Letho had chuffed and scowled at it but once he'd heard of the coffee restrictions he'd accepted it begrudgingly.

"How long does it take to move your ass?" Tarviel was nattering from his place on the coffee table, just as the door opened.

All four of them stilled, turning as Serrit strolled in, a blonde woman bouncing in after him. He was smiling, looked happy - as he had no right to be. He'd tried to kill Master and yet here he was, breath sucked up in a laugh that froze on his lips as he turned to gape at them. The cad made a choked sound when the woman broke into jovial laughter, immediately looking over to them upon seeing the boy's distraction. Her blonde curls shimmered as her eyes glowed green.

The smile she offered was blinding.

"You must be Ser's family! I've heard so much about you," she slipped out of Serrit's startled, white knuckled grasp and bounced over to them. "Nice to meet you all, I'm Alice."

Letho snorted from where he was sitting, bandaged arms sprawled over the back of the couch as he grinned up at the girl. He'd grabbed some trousers from his rooms so his calf bandages weren't visible. "Good to meet you, Alice," he patted the space between himself and Ragnar gently. "Come sit with us."

The human was none the wiser to the intimidation tactics they were enthralling her in and bounded over gleefully. She slotted herself in between them like she belonged there, a puzzle piece fitting into place. Ragnar watched her whilst nursing his mug.

"I'm Letho," began the bald, spitefully ignoring the fitful glares from Serrit, who most certainly despised their game. The room reeked of clovers; the boy's anxiety rearing through. "And this 'ere is Ragnar, the brat's Tarviel and the old grump is Gerring."

Gerring grunted but was overridden by Tarviel's excited chatter.

"You're lovely, Alice, truly the eye of my sky. How long have you known Serrit? Are you two dating?"

Serrit floundered by the door, looking almost as if he wanted to run. Ragnar shifted to glare at him, making it look as if he was shifting to look at the girl.

"Thank you," blushed the girl. "We've been dating for three years. You're his brothers, right? I've been wanting to meet you all for so long!"

"I'm the best brother," Tarviel grinned, leaning coyishly forwards as he winked at the human. "Although Letho would probably disagree."

"Only because I'm better," added the bald Viper. He finished off his tea and set the mug in the floor by his feet loudly. Ragnar took great joy in hearing Serrit swallow nervously. "But you haven't even met Jaskier yet."

"Jaskier?" The girl's eyes sparkled. "I haven't heard much of him - is he funny? Ser says he's like a big brother."

"I'm sure he'd love you," Gerring started, getting on his old man drawl to play the part. "Unfortunately he couldn't make it today."

"Why? Did something happen?" The girl inquired, blushing when she realised how nosey she was being. "Oh, I'm sorry, nevermind - I'm so rude!"

"Don't worry," Gerring waved her off, holding his mug. "Jaskier got in a bit of an accident, I'm afraid. He's not too well at the moment."

The girl looked positively distraught. "Is he going to be alright? I could help, if you need; I'm a doctor."

 _That_ threw Ragnar for a loop. How had Serrit weaselled his way into a human doctor's life? He notched his glare up a tad, consoled by how the boy paled, and readied for the scolding he enjoyed giving out on why they _never_ went to hospitals.

In the quiet, the girl assumed the worst. "Oh dear, I can help him. Please let me!"

Letho shot him a look. Ragnar supposed it couldn't hurt; the girl would be in deep after they'd paid their visit anyway. He shrugged but nodded.

"Alright," Letho hummed, clapping her shoulder lightly. He stood and maneuvered her with him, pulling her off to the side. She went willingly, scent lilting towards daffodils - curiosity. "But you're gonna have to wait for a bit, we're here on work, you see."

"Work?" She echoed. "What sort of work?"

"The monster hunting kind," Ragnar stood, pulling his fangs, Lopik and Gisdel, from under his tunic. The girl's eyes shot wide - Letho's hand curling around her bicep, forcing her to remain still as Gerring snapped his fingers and Maugrim drew, shooting to his hands from the corner he'd stashed the blade.

Serrit's heart pounded. "Please," he begged, voice breaking as he stumbled back. Desperation swirled a sickening scent around him. "Listen to me, I didn't want to. It was meant to be quick, _painless!"_

Tarviel scoffed, expression dark as he flipped Marishmel and Cluthav in his hands. He was crouched on the coffee table now, gaze primed on his prey. "Don't waste your breath, traitor. You knew what you were doing."

"Please," Serrit tried again, only to break off in a shrill scream as Marishmel speared into the wooden cabinet by his head. The flimsy wood splintered easily, a stray offshooting piece scratching a thin scrape down his cheek. He crashed into the counter, shaking, his eyes wide and bright with fear, scent sour as a lemon.

He was horrified; _good_.

"Quit your caterwauling," Ragnar snarled. Gisdel begged for blood, always having been the more thirsty of the two. Serrit flinched at his tone and she flew, flinging into the meat of his arm. The coward caught his voice on a scream as the fang embedded herself, a loud crack of bone ringing out through the apartment's room.

The girl gasped and rocked in Letho's grip, seemingly having lost her voice as she tried to shake off the bald's hand. Ragnar paid her no mind, stepping forth slowly to give Serrit a clear inclination as to what was going to happen.

"Let her leave," the traitor asked finally. He was stuck to the counters, not even having tried to remove Gisdel. "Please, don't do this to her."

"Should've thought about that before you started dating her, _brother,"_ Tarviel spat. The boy was angry, rightfully so, at having been tricked. Ragnar would be lying if he denied feeling such himself. "She's already in the deep end."

"And there's only sharks down here," growled Gerring, Maugrim nearly vibrating in his hands. He stepped forwards, levelling up with Ragnar as Tarviel flanked them. "Surely you knew what would happen if you betrayed us, _boy_?"

The venom used to spit the word was so thick that Ragnar dreaded such being used on him. Instead, he rose Lopik and tilted her on her side. "What do you think, Letho?" He asked, tone making his displeasure clear. "Should we string his guts from the ceiling fan or hang them out the window?"

"Hmm," thundered the man. His face was the epitome of a thunderstorm when he frowned and right now that bristling power was aimed at Serrit. The traitor shook, knees quivering in a way that reminded Ragnar of a baby goat. He was weak and foolish - as was any idiot who believed they'd get away with a mark on their Master. "I think we should show him a little of what Jaskier felt as his arms and legs burned."

Serrit couldn't get any paler. His eyes were thin greenish slits. All of a sudden, he looked exhausted. "Alright," he gasped, entire body sagging. "Alright. Kill me, it's fine. I deserve this for being a whoreson. Just- don't let him get her."

Tarviel, who'd began stalking towards the cowering fool, stopped mid-motion, Cluthav raised high as he'd prepared to dig into the other arm. "What?" He cawed. "Don't let who get who?" The man cast his gaze about, settling on the petrified looking girl. "Who? Alice? Don't let who get her?"

No reply came. Tarviel gripped Serrit's jaw and shook his head with such force that Ragnar heard the saliva rock in his mouth. The brown haired man leaned into the traitor's face and roared, "Who, you lying whoreson?"

"Master!" Wailed Serrit in a burst of motion. His free hand shot up to grab Tarviel's waist, forgoing the natural response of batting away the fang hovering over his shoulder. "He hates humans! Once he finds out about Alice he'll kill her- please, you can't let him! I love her, I really do!"

Ragnar was stunned. "How did you come to this conclusion?"

"I love her- her eyes, her smile, even the way she walks! Please, let her live!"

He didn't have the patience to listen to the boy's blubbering. Lopik slipped out of his hand, landing inches away from Serrit's clothed dick. The boy gave a muffled whimper but aside from his quivering fingers clinging to the panel of Tarviel's kevlar armour, he put up no resistance. "Don't be dull. How did you ever come to think Master hated humans?"

The traitor's lip wobbled. His eyes were shiny with unshed tears. Tarviel ripped himself out of the other's grasp. The girl was silent in Letho's grip. "W-what?"

"By Melitele's Breasts," snorted Gerring suddenly. "Is this what made you do it? Thinking Master hated humans enough to disparage your adoration for one? If you knew anything you'd know he finds his uses for them."

In the pregnant pause of dawning horror, familiar magic swirled around the couch. A moment later, Jaskier stood there, panting and sweaty. He wavered, bandages holding more colour than his own skin, and Letho let go of the girl to race to his side, large arm cresting around his waist to keep their Master standing.

Ragnar stared. "What are you doing? How are you even standing, your knees are-"

Jaskier made a sharp click with his tongue, demanding silence that they all fell into. His pupils narrowed as he stared at Serrit but instead of looking angry, he looked deeply saddened.

"I'm here to make sure you didn't kill him too soon," he spoke, voice low and ragged. He sounded like he'd been chewing gravel. If Letho hadn't been supporting him, Ragnar was sure he would've fell with how his complexion grew bleaker by the second. "Raspberries."

He said nothing more. Still, Serrit sucked in a low breath, looking crushed.

"Master," murmured the man, head ducking low enough to graze his chest. "I'm so terribly sorry."

The man simply sighed, singed hair hanging around him. His hands were completely bandaged, his arms from the wrists up to his biceps swathed in white. He'd forgone a shirt in his rush, making it clear that despite the plethora of burns he was outlasting this. From where the burns treaded into first degree along his pectorals, the bandages fell short, allowing burn to mingle with scar as he stood. His legs were entirely covered, thin trails of red blood peaking past the looser wrappings around the third degree burns that dug into his knees. His feet were bare, skin nearly gray.

Privately, Ragnar wondered how he was still conscious. Any mortal man would be dead or in a coma by now.

"You're bleeding," spoke up the girl in the absence of speech. She wobbled closer to Jaskier, lips pursed tight. Her hands strayed towards him, Letho held back as Jaskier turned to look at her.

Master's hand caught her's, crunching past the bandages to tug her towards him in a fit of randomness. The girl squeaked, following the motion as she rocked before Jaskier. The man merely blinked at her, using his looser bandaged hand to run a trail of his fingertips down her cheek. He looked lost for a moment, voice tight.

"Renfri?" He asked, eyes flickering as he scanned her expression. The girl blinked, mouth forming a small circle. She smelt confused. Though, to be fair, all of them smelt confused in some stage or another.

"I'm sorry," she explained. "My name's Alice. It's so nice to meet you, Jaskier. Can you sit down for me?"

But Jaskier didn't seem to understand. He blinked as if in a daze, pushing Letho to lift the man over to the couch. With their Master draped over the cushions on his back, the girl plucked a pillow from the armchair Gerring had been sitting on and placed it gently under his head. His eyes followed her movements, tracking her, but the girl merely cooed softly at him and began humming an old lullaby.

An elven lullaby.

"Where's the worst of the burns?" She inquired, voice harder than it had ever been, a strong determined tone that made Ragnar feel calm. Alice knelt beside Jaskier like a nursemaid, gently rubbing a pattern into his bandages.

"His knees," Ragnar choked out, Serrit forgotten about for an instant as Alice straightened her back and set glowing hands over Jaskier's knees. Letho startled, jerking as if he wanted to rip her away from their Master but then Jaskier sighed, the sound content and warm, and sagged from his tense position, sinking into the cushions as the gleaming green haze seeped into his bandages.

Serrit stood, frozen. Alice looked up to him, a soft smile gracing her lips as she moved from one knee to the next, healing Jaskier's burns with efficiency. "I'm sorry for never telling you, Witcher," she admitted quietly. "I'm an elven healer."

"I like you," Jaskier murmured suddenly, bandaged hands coming up to tap at her shoulder in a friendly manner. "Come to dinner tonight?"

Alice smiled serenely. "I'm sorry, Jaskier, but-" Letho shifted behind her. Raganr, hoping Jaskier had an ulterior motive, glared persuasively. Tarviel yanked Marishmel from the wood cabinet. The healer swallowed and began again. "I'd love to."

Jaskier let out a soft, slightly manic giggle, and let his hand fall. He was asleep a moment later, exhaustion finally having dragged him down.

"So," Tarviel whirled on Serrit, smirking when the man flinched. "Guess you're off the hook. Better not run anywhere, _mouse_."


	16. there's a cave where light meets dark and a rainbow is formed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tie-in history with my other fic - petals in the breeze - and we get an inside with ilester, my newest favourite babe. (I love them all tho).  
> some drama in this one bois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woosh, this one's a big boi - nearly 7k!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS : swearing, implied murder, witcher contracts, stigma around witchers, manipulation, depressive themes, threatening behaviour, suggested anxiety/panic attacks, mentioned past torture, past injury, mental pain, scarred witchers, trauma, PTSD, violence, insensitive topics

It was some year near the 600s. On his first Saovine on the Path. Jaskier (then Julian) was a young witcher, new to a cruel world of distrust and hatred. He'd been on his way South, intent on getting to Gvaed before the first storms. Come the night, he passed through a small non-descript village that he had thought was pretty, with all its wood planks and dirt roads, but would later find it was no different to every other ramshackle hut and copse on the road. Back then he'd been free with what he'd called pretty.

As an armoured witcher with two blatantly obvious blades by his hips, the people scowled and gave him a wide berth as he walked through the streets but no one neared him to chase him out, as ones had the village over. Julian seen that as a good thing and took his time in walking, silently watching those who were mumming - dressing themselves up in costumes to hide from the wrathful spirits and the Aos Sí (the faeries). He himself knew the spirits would do little to these people, unless provoked terribly, and Julian did not understand their paranoia as a bunch of children bustled by, clutching their prized nuts after a rhyme gone well.

He was young and thus without horse as he walked, meaning for a quick getaway - something he would remember moodily as he hurried to saddle his mounts when a mob threatened to brew. As it was, Saovine was meaning for few contracts, so he was merely passing through the small village, readying to camp on the outskirts of the forests surrounding the settlement. With any luck, he'd be able to spend the night there before moving on.

"Oi, Witcher!" Came a yell from his left. Julian looked over, careful to avoid walking into a skipping girl no older than nine summers, and changed his course as a gruff looking man knocked his head back to motion him over. The man looked to be the village butcher, the waft of his shop doing something prickly to Julian's stomach as he stopped in front of the apron-wearing man. His eyes were bright but slanted with what the young witcher had come to assume was dismay, his beard long and frazzled as he looked up to him, burly arms crossed like small trees. The butcher squinted up at him distrustfully. "Freakishly tall fuck you are, eh?"

Julian bristled at the words but managed to grit out, "Do you needed something?"

"Yeah," smiled the man. Yellow and black teeth shone up at him from what remained in the man's mouth, his breath a cloud of garlic. Evidently, this village believed in eating garlic to keep the faeries away. It explained the indescribable stench that clung to the downwind breeze. "Got a job for you, down by the graveyard."

Many common folk believed entering a graveyard during Saovine was a curse already bestowed. Although, Julian also knew, they thought the same of playing an instrument. Ivar liked to laugh at their silly superstitions, oft making mockery of how they felt the need to guise during this holiday.

"What sort of job?" He asked, prying for information.

The butcher scoffed. "The monster kind, Witcher. What else use have we for you? One of me mates was down there the other day, seeing his wife, an' saw something crawling outta one of the graves."

A Wraith, likely. Worst case scenario, an Alghoul feasting on badly buried corpses. Middle ground, a Ghoul. Or two - those things hunted in packs.

Good thing he'd stocked up on Spectre Oil a few villages over.

"Is there an Alderman who I can see for a posting?" He questioned, minutely rocking back from the man as he bellowed out a great laugh in his face. Julian struggled against the urge to scrunch his nose; last thing he needed was to lose the first contract he'd gotten in days over something as meek as manners.

"Ain't posted yet and it ain't gonna be. I'll pay you," the butcher said once he'd finished laughing like a cow.

"How much?"

"Five crown."

Julian raised his eyebrow in the way Hweklm (an older witcher who'd walked the Path for six summers already and was quite intimidating) had taught him. "Fifty," he tried to haggle.

The butcher spat at his feet, missing his boots by an inch. "Fuck that, I have to live - six crown."

"Thirty," the young witcher attempted, knowing he was losing the fight. The butcher's grin said he knew it too.

"Six or nothing," sneered the man, muscles in his arms flexing as he sized up to Julian. A fight with the man would be over quickly but his elders had warned against such, proclaiming one witcher's reputation soured was a soured reputation for them all. An unwarranted killing would not go down well, on Saovine night even less.

"Where is the graveyard?" He pursued instead. The older man gave him a look as if reproaching a child before gesturing off to the North.

"Up past the hill the village hall's on, past the shroud of oak trees." Julian figured it was useless to tell the man the entire village was surrounded by oaks. "You'll see the shovel hut before you see the wood spikes. Kill the thing, prove it and you'll get your pay."

 _Like six crown is a decent pay,_ he thought but ran a finger down the length of his blades as he set off.

Unsheathing his fangs in the middle of a village whilst children ran amuck about him would never end well, so Julian held off until he'd crested the hill and had graced the first layer of trees before pulling Viocar and Qwenisve out to oil them. It was likely the 'crawling' thing was a Wraith and if he was lucky, he hoped to grab a shovel from the alleged shovel hut to begin digging along the outlaws corner before the Spectre emerged.

Blades oiled and resheathed, he made his way into the thicket, pushing past low hanging branches as he powered forth. True to the butcher's word, he came across the shovel hut first - a small, rickety thing, barely big enough to fit a man like the butcher. Inside, past the shrill creaking door that looked nothing more than a slip of rotten wood, was a single shovel, worn and rusted. Julian couldn't help breathing as he reached forwards for it, inhaling the sickly scent of death as he towered over a mangled rat that appeared to have been stepped on. The pile of blood and froth by its mouth was enough to urge him to grab the shovel quicker, stretching his arm out to grab the flimsy wooden shaft as he closed the door behind himself.

He straightened himself and looked over to the small mass of grave-marking wooden crosses in time to see a Wraith pull itself from the undergrowth, soil sliding off its ashen, sunken skin as it loitered towards him, a low gurgle in the back of its throat. Julian abandoned the shovel to the side of the shed as he took a step forwards-

And promptly stilled, hands on his fangs' handles.

The Wraith gloomed at him, features twisted in a snarl as it swayed. In its eyes, it held a core of panic past the misty hatred for life these Spectres usually held. Perhaps that was because he was staring at one of his own, the Wraith's fury was dulled by the sight of one of his brethren. Because this was no normal peasant villager who'd been wronged by a love or buried unfaithfully.

No; a witcher stood before him, the armour of the Cranes evident even past the see-through, translucent quality to his body. Julian figured he'd been killed, if the bloody gashes marring his face and the ripped open tunic showing a long line down his stomach, showing off his intestines, indicated anything. The long gash matched the length of a certain shovel's span rather shockingly.

"I'll lay you to rest, brother," he croaked, tone as soft as he could make it - which was pretty damn soft, seeing as he was young and naïve. His voice broke on the last words, having been trained to give respect to all other witchers he met on the Path because they all faced the same thing.

They all faced a common blight, he'd later muse, years later when he was older and far too tired. The blight of humanity.

For its worth, the Wraith gave a final wail before looking down to the grave it had climbed out of - a shallow pit proportioned between two crosses, barely big enough for a babe. Feeling queasy, Julian raised Qwenisve, slick with the Spectre Oil, and the dead witcher floated forth to impale himself. As the afterimage dissipated, Julian hurried for the shovel by the hut's side, returning to the witcher's shallow burial quickly.

He hit the body with a few digs, quietly unearthing the chopped up remains of a Crane witcher who'd been killed too soon. He wondered if the butcher knew what he was sending him out to do when he sent him off, wondered if this had happened before. Julian pulled a medallion of a crane rising to flight from the mound of maggots and unrotten flesh and pocketed the metal in an inner pocket of his leathers. A new grave was sourced on the outer rim of the graveyards, just within the staked territory of the wooden spikes that drew a boundary. Julian brewed in his anger as he dug a hole deep enough to protect from scavengers and horrific storms, carefully grabbed the remains of the witcher as he transferred the corpse and found himself kneeling by freshly displaced soil what felt like a blink later.

On his knees, he offered the man a fickle prayer to a god he didn't believe in, gave his well wishes - which he hoped for so immensely they hurt to utter - and stood in the dusk of a bright half-moon. Just in time for a quarrel of men to emerge from the surrounding trees.

They muttered lowly, all ten wielding something in form of a weapon - be it an axe or, in a notably singular case, a battered club. Most had some sort of a head, stone or iron. Julian faced the ringleader of the circle that advanced on him and stared into the butcher's bright eyes.

"Found your Wraith," he said dully, making no movement as the men around him snickered lowly. They stunk of cheap beer, likely only beginning to celebrate Saovine. Julian wondered idly if it had been a setup all along or if this was a sudden decision. It wasn't like six crown was much to lose for the butcher. "Mind giving me an inclination as to why he was a witcher?"

"Got killed," grunted a man from behind him, modest at his under-average height - smaller than the butcher, being the smallest of the group. He held the club. This was the weak link. "What's it to you, mutant scum?"

"Not every day peasants like you get in a lucky hit," Julian went on, uncaring for the shifting men with steel that glinted in the moon's light. "Tell me, which one of you was it?"

"Was what?" Snipped another man; weak axe, brittle handle, a rattling chest. In the dark, Julian couldn't see the colour of their hair, nor their usual clothing that hinted to their craft, but from the groaning limber to the man's walk and the upper body muscle and wide stance he assumed he was the village wood cutter, to some extent.

Julian made sure his tone was cold. "Which one of you shoved the shovel through his stomach?" Because it was likely that which had killed him, that or the shock of peasants actually succeeding in their hate-filled task. This was wrong: peasants weren't supposed to kill witchers and vice versa.

"Oh," boomed one man with hair so scraggly it looked like weeds. He clutched a fire-bruised poker. "That woulda been me, mighty fine job I did, aye?"

"Aye," Julian murmured, deeply saddened, and struck.

The weak link - club man - went first, the shovel Julian had stooped beside him being grabbed instantly as he twirled and whacked the man over the head with it. As he fell, unconscious, the other men shouted profanity-filled warcries and fell into motion. Another man, this one with some sort of blunted pike, fell to a head bash before the shovel crumbled in his grip, rotten wood flaking as it finally gave up the ghost.

Two down, a man with an axe charged him, taking wild swings that would only take out an exhausted cat. Julian stepped into his inner range, startling him back as the axe pushed out too far - the weapon swinging out of range too quickly to recover - and delivered a swift uppercut that had him out before he even hit the ground. On momentum alone, the axe reared towards him as the man fell so Julian merely stepped out of the way, watching as it planted itself just above the man's shoulder, millimetres from his neck. _Shame it hadn't killed him,_ he thought and spun to kick out at two more men.

They were uncoordinated, barely a speck of dust on his worries compared to the fighting force of the seasoned witchers the training instructors had chase after the trainees for 'games'. If a boy was caught then he came to expect a beating, designed to teach them no one would be merciful if they fell on the Path. Just now, as he sidestepped to avoid the swing of an axe, Julian believed he had leant that lesson truly.

By the time six were down he'd sustained nothing more than a light breeze-over that ruffled his hair, having come from when he'd bent double to avoid being cut in the torso by the wood cutter's fierce swing. The man had potential, he'd admit, but his sidewards swing was pathetic in comparison to his downwards - Julian knew such because he'd very nearly panicked as such swing was suddenly aimed at him once he'd distracted himself with another man.

Finally, after giving the wood cutter a sharp chest jab that had him on his knees and knocking him out with a leisurely tap with the blunt of his own axe, he pressed on the brittle weapon and felt the wood flutter away under his gloves as the axe fell in two. There was only the man with the poker now and the butcher, clutching a sharp cleaver that sparkled in the moon's rays. The two had stayed back from the mindless clamour, having probably stayed back under the assumption that either the other men would take him out or he'd be too tired after dealing with them to stand much of a chance against them. Probably the strategy they'd used against the Crane.

"Not getting my six crown, am I?" He chirped, having used quips a lot in those days. The butcher snorted and the scraggly haired man charged him with a shout.

The poker seemed to swing slowly and Julian took relief in that fact, using it to idly watch the way in how the man's limbs sprawled out as he dived towards him fruitlessly. Melitele, how he wanted to cut down these men - but he couldn't, lest harm befall any other witcher to pass through. Hopefully doing this now would result in a warning for the men, not damaging witchers reputation too much.

A swift clip to the back of his head had the man sprawling on the ground, groaning in unconsciousness. Julian turned at the sound of footsteps and found the butcher glaring at him.

"You'll regret that, slimy whoreson," threatened the man, ushering forth to grab his arm and raise his cleaver in a hefty swing. Julian hummed, unfazed as he instead gripped onto the man's wrist through this position and twisted his arm until it broke. In the wake of fresh, unexpected pain, the man's cleaving arm went wide, missing by a mile. Julian frowned at the man, jumping up agily to knee the man in the jaw. The butcher fell to the ground with a clatter, cleaver falling to land blade first in the mud of the graveyard.

He grabbed their purses, one by one emptied them into his own before replacing them, and crept out of the village before anyone could come investigate what all the noise had been. He made sure to never return.

Ilester startled awake to the shrill, piercing sound of his phone ringing. Groggy in the morning sun that filtered through his blinds, he groaned and rolled in his bed, thin blankets doing nothing for his sensitive ears as they were tugged up over his head.

Last night he'd near shit himself at learning Master's apartment had been blown up. The chatter had been all over the Viper group chat (because yes there was one, even if most of the older men didn't acknowledge it) and he'd felt extraordinarily guilty at having ignored the hum of the wards reacting.

In his own weak defence, he'd been interrupted during sex, with which he'd had to make an excuse that his necklace was connected to his phone and that was why it was vibrating. Such a lie had come with his bedmate enquiring who had made it, to which Ilester had said his father and then been forced to endure a proposal for a threesome with the man.

( _"Well, I always have liked techie guys. Do you think he'd like me? Maybe he could, mm, join us next time?"_ )

Safe to say, the mood had been shot and he'd hurried to get rid of the guy. Cute or not he didn't appreciate buzzkills.

In the present, he groaned as his phone started ringing again after a stunted moment of ear-thumping silence. He reached out for the charging cable, fingers finding the cool plastic and tugging at it in hopes of lifting his phone too.

The muted thump against the rug suggested his cable and phone had argued and fallen out. The phone was still ringing.

Brow scrunched as he fought to drown out the ringing, Ilester finally pushed himself onto his stomach and dangled his arm off the bed to grab his phone. Inches away from grabbing it, the device fell silent. His ribs mewled a protest at his position.

He sighed and rolled back over, leaving it on the floor. Served it right for waking him.

"Ilester!" Auckes shouted from across the hall, in the kitchen if the clatter of pans meant anything. "Answer Ragnar's call!"

Choking on whatever belated sense of dignity he had left, Ilester made haste and hurriedly rolled over again to finally pick up his phone. He blinked blearily at it in time to stare at the profile pic for Ragnar as the device shook with an incoming call. The picture was of him raising his eyebrow at the camera, the proportions weird on it because he'd had to crop Lanir out of it so he didn't accidentally think the kid was calling him. Not that he called much - guy preferred to text, or as it was, write out stuff in old Common and send him a pic of it instead of typing words.

Ilester was well aware he loved a bunch of fucking weirdos.

He answered it.

"'Lo?" He managed.

"Ilester, I called you three times," _Melitele,_ he could practically hear the frown in the older (by two years) man's voice.

"So'y," he grunted, curling back up on his side as old scars ached and sent phantom pains along his ribs. Deciding he sounded a bit too rough, he pulled the phone back a tad and cleared his throat. When he spoke again he sounded less like a drunk and more professional. "What can I do for you, brother?"

"You could answer on the first ring next time," suggested the man.

"Phone was far away," he explained. "Jas okay?"

"Hit the nail on the head," agreed the man. Ilester pausing to wonder at what he'd gotten straight away as he stretched tensely. "I'm sure you're aware of the situation right now."

"Mmhm," Ilester clarified.

"Master wants everyone over for dinner." Noted the man, a fond note of exasperation in his voice. "Think you'll be able to make it?"

"Sure," he laughed. "Long as I don't need to bring anything?"

Ragnar paused to consider. "An open mind," he added finally before hanging up.

Ilester gawked at his phone, wondering what state Master was really in if Ragnar's words had been the warning he thought they were. In the kitchen, Auckes banged something off the counter and let out a feeble moan - the _idiot_. Ilester dropped his phone beside him on the bed and closed his eyes again.

Gorthur Gvaed smelt of burnt flesh and singed hair. Pain clung to the walls and Gerring was in a mood as he read in the den, frowning heavily at the pages of his yellowed book. Ilester glanced around quickly, smirking at Auckes as the other man scuttled off to find Letho and pull the news out of him.

"Everything alright?" He asked, settling meekly down on the couch beside the older man. With old scars acting up he felt stiff and unwieldly, back forced uncomfortably straight against the soft back of the seating.

"Everything's fine," Gerring grumped. He turned the page and his glower increased. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh," he hummed. "You just look like someone threw a stink pellet at you, is all I'm saying."

"Better a stink pellet than a bomb designed to kill me. It was Eating Fire; the damn curse interfered with the magic of his medallion."

Ilester winced. He turned his head to look into the fire. "Thought it would be bad. How'd he get out if-?"

"Letho's medallion worked," Gerring set his book aside, marking it with a slip of paper as Lanir's voice echoed down the corridors, exclaiming that dinner was being served. "Master was lucky. _Is_ lucky to be alive. Third degree burns to his knees, second to his hands all the way up along his arms. He's lost a few inches of hair, too. Not that you'd notice but he sure complained."

Preparing to see a whole lot of bandages rather than man, Ilester stood awkwardly. Gerring looked at him for a moment.

"Your ribs?" Questioned the man softly.

"Yeah," he said, not looking him in the eye. He'd been captured by Nilfgaard in 1162, tortured for information on the Vipers who were wrecking havoc whereever they went. They'd broken his ribs multiple times in a bid for him to speak. He took grest pride in that he never had, even if the pain still haunted him on humid days like today. "Just stiff, is all."

"And Maugrim doesn't shine in the sunlight," snorted the man. He nodded to the door. "Come on, lad. Let's go eat."

They flopped to the main hall, Ilester prying a seat beside Auckes amidst the chaos. There was a new scent he noticed, crouched by Jaskier's side. Magic swirled around it and when he looked he found a blonde woman, as thin as a waif. Her hands glowed green as she spoke with Master, fingers prodding at bandaged hands.

Letho happened to look at him as he strode to his own seat beside the Wolf on Master's right, Ilester raising an eyebrow in greeting as his eyes flicked to the woman. The Second in Command rolled his own eyes in turn, offering a minute shake of his head - it would be explained but not right now.

That was fine. Ilester could live with suspense.

Quickly, the table filled up. Master already sat at the head, leaning back heavily in his chair as the woman worked to make his bandaged hand dexterious enough so that he could hold his fork. Along the right hand side of the table sat Master's white haired Wolf, Letho and Ragnar, in that order.

Tarviel rucked up beside Ragnar as Lanir and Pietr joined their leftern side, adding to the order of Gerring, Auckes and Ilester himself. Surprisingly, Serrit sat by himself beside Tarviel, leaving a space between them. At Jaskier's dismissal, the woman sat beside him, keeping the gap between Tar and the man as she sat on his left.

_Odd._

Kolgrim burst into the room, offering a wide grin as he sauntered over, collapsing beside Ilester. With a huff, he slapped the man on the back of the head and enjoyed the annoyed squawk he received as the food appeared on the table in some Hogwarts-esque fashion (but make note it had been the Vipers' first). The meal was relatively simple, with chicken breasts on plates along with roasted potatoes. There was tofu in a few bowls, salad in others and a platter of fresh bread making its way around the table. It smelt heavenly.

"Thought you were ghosting me?" Ilester questioned jokingly, leaning into Kolgrim's space as the other man began shovelling food out for himself. Poor bastard couldn't cook for shit.

"You blew up my toaster the last time you came over, Est," Kol pointed out. "So, you _could_ say I've been ghosting you."

"How are you putting up with it?" He asked, grabbing a bread roll as the plate fluttered by. "Must be hard with how much you love me - am I being missed?"

"My floor's actually clear of any potion ingredients for the first time in years and the place smells not so much like Bloedzuiger guts. I think I'm doing well," smirked the man.

Ilester hummed, careful not to jostle himself as he spooned some potatoes onto his plate. "But, the billion crown question, my brother, do you _miss_ me?"

"How could I miss you when I'm talking to you right now?" Kolgrim replied. His grin was shit-eating and for a moment Ilester debated the cons of throwing a piece of his chicken into the other's face. Before he could enact his devious plan, Ragnar looked up and made striking eye contact.

 _Don't do what I think you're about to do,_ said his glare. Ilester sent him his best edition of puppy dog eyes but ate the chicken he'd been about to chuck.

Mid-bite, Auckes leant over him and started up a conversation with Kolgrim, both assholes trying to annoy him as they held a heated debate over the newest human's console game. Ilester hated the consoles - they were annoying and Auckes left his at the base of the tv, wires strewn everywhere in an obvious attempt to trip Ilester up and murder him cruelly. And the _noise_ they made, all their little fans whirring and exhausts letting out gallons of warm air, was horrific.

 _Whatever,_ he leant back and let them ramble, wondering if he had enough effort in him to push Auckes' face down into his crotch to teach him a lesson. His ribs gave a sharp twang as he reached for his glass, making his hand shake. As he struggled for a breath, Kolgrim nudged the glass into his hand with his fingers as Auckes wrapped an arm around his back and dug his calluses into a focal point for his pain, gently massaging out his sudden cramp.

The two kept up their conversation as they did this. Ilester decided to let them off with it just this once.

He sat there, sipping at his wine as he worked back his appetite and found himself analysing Master. The man looked a little pale, bandages clear past his henley as the white canvas ran lengths along both his arms and curled around his hands. He looked a little bit like a mummy, one like those kids who went out guising, wrapped in toilet paper for Saovine - now called Halloween, or something like that. Ilester couldn't see his legs from his angle, but he was sure they would be bad. Third degree burns were nothing to shrug off and if they went deep enough there could be permanent nerve damage. Although if they had a good healer on hand the nerve damage could be healed.

On that note, Ilester glanced over to the blonde woman, finding her murmuring quietly with Serrit. The witcher had an odd look to him, smelt a little off, so Ilester figured he had a thing for the chick. The girl definitely had one for him, judging from how fond she was.

Looking closer, he caught the usual traits of elven heritage on the girl; slightly sharper ears, eyes that glittered with specks of colour, nimble hands that clutched easily at her cutlery. She could obviously use magic, as he'd seen her hands glowing earlier but she smelt no different than any normal human now that her Chaos had lapsed back under the surface. An elven healer was a good advantage, especially on the field. Blinking, he wondered where they'd found her.

If they'd had an elf with magic like that back in the eleventh century then maybe Ilester's ribs wouldn't be so stiff, maybe Pietr's arm wouldn't be scarred from how the bone had thrust through flesh, maybe Jaskier's right leg wouldn't be a patchwork of skin and scars after it had been crushed.

They'd been lucky, he mused. Everyone in this room had some scars he knew of, the Wolf witcher most certainly - even if Ilester hadn't seen anything. Healing magic was so refined that, if done right, even the largest wound could be knitted back together again.

Master found healing hard, preferring to clean wounds before stitching them back together, even if he did use his magic to numb and sterilize the wound and tools.

Ilester looked back to his lap and found Auckes nearly sprawled over his legs. Smirking, he seized the advantage and set his glass on the flat of the other man's back, reaching forward for his bread roll as Auckes stilled in an attempt to not get covered in wine. Kolgrim laughed at him, nearly choking on his potatoes as he poked Auckes in the face, trying to make him move.

Eventually he tugged Auckes off his lap - or rather, made him get off after pleading the position was smarting him (which it damn had been) - and Ilester finally got back to his dinner. When everyone was done, Jaskier cleared his throat, breaking off from his conversation with his Wolf, and the room fell silent.

Jaskier hummed and suddenly the food was gone, glasses and plates vanishing with the roil of magic. The elven girl gasped as the cutlery vanished. Ilester leaned back in his chair as Jaskier's eyes twinkled and suddenly the table was gone too. Gerring spluttered as he hurried to right himself, glaring daggers at the man as he leaned back, watching as Jaskier stood, long skirt flowing down to his knees. The stark whiteness of his bandages covered everything the skirt left visible, wrappings left loose enough that he could walk. The sight caused a gurgle of guilt to surge forth in Ilester for ignoring the medallion.

Ragnar huffed warningly as Master spared him a grin and walked around their feet, walking where the table would've been if he hadn't magicked it away. Everyone shucked their feet under their chairs - as was good manners - as the man strode along, stopping in front of the blonde girl.

Jaskier offered her a hand, the girl standing to be introduced to them all. She was blushing, red from the roots of her hair. "Boys, this is our newest friend-"

"Don't make us sound weird, old man," Letho snorted as the girl shot Jaskier an odd, apprehensive look.

With a pout sent Letho's way, the man started again. He smiled lopsidedly at the girl, gesturing for her to speak.

"Hello everyone," she began to the enthusiasm of Jaskier. "I'm Al'yyus, although you may call me Alice. I'm an elven healer," she practically stumbled to a stop and Jaskier clapped.

"Good, Alice here has been courting Serrit for three years," announced the Grandmaster. Something glinted in his eyes that hadn't been there since the long War they'd fought. "And she is the sole reason why the traitor amongst us has not been struck down."

Ilester would've gaped if he could, but as it was he was stuck, wide-eyed and alarmed, just like the rest of his brothers. The only ones unaffected were Letho, Ragnar, Gerring and, surprisingly, Tarviel. Even the Wolf looked surprised.

"Indeed," declared Jaskier, twirling until he faced an ashen-faced Serrit. His tone was venomous as he sneered down at the man, hands resting on his hips as he looked at the witcher. "Make your case amidst the group, _boy_."

"I-" Serrit began weakly, only to be cut off by Jaskier gripping his jaw forcefully. Their Master shook his arm, shaking Serrit's head as annoyance flooded the room.

With Jaskier in a bad mood, Ilester knew this wouldn't end nicely.

Proven as such when Serrit remained seated, tense with fear, and was ripped from his chair, an irate Jaskier booming, "Stand and address them, _boy_! Address them with the determination you had as you placed that bomb in Twenty-Eight, address them with the arrogance you stood there with, stinking up my apartment so you'd be the last thing I smelt, knowing you'd betrayed me as that fucking _magic_ burned me alive!"

The man was frozen, breath croaking in his chest as he clenched his hands into fists. Jaskier stood opposite him, fierce despite his wounds - fierce _because_ of his wounds. If Jaskier was a bird of prey, Serrit was a tadpole. The younger man was severely outmatched, even without the other Vipers at Jaskier's back.

"Nothing to say?" Queried the man, a sharp caustic laugh bubbling up from his throat. "Should I bring Letho up to raise Joluneer to your throat, or should I pin you to the kitchen cabinets with Lopik between your legs and Gisdel in your arm? That certainly made you talk earlier, didn't it?"

Serrit was silent. Most of the Vipers were leaning forwards in their chairs now, anger rising off them like dark plumes.

"Is this true, Serrit?" Auckes asked. Ilester placed a hand on his for support as his voice shook.

The traitor's head bowed. "Yes," he said quietly. "Yes; I planted the bomb, not with arrogance or determination, but fear. It was... I'd hoped for it to be painless, Master. The mage said, he said..."

"Oh," Jaskier leaned forth, getting into Serrit's space as he left the elf to stand where she was. Their Master's tone was thick like pure honey, filled with anger but also bemusement as he got off on seeing the traitor quiver in fear. Ilester wasn't sure if he himself would be able to remain still with Jaskier's fury pouring at him like that. "What did the mage say, hm? Did he promise you riches? Virtues? Perhaps, a child?"

"He said you'd kill Alice!" Serrit screamed, pushing himself forward so he was nose-to-nose with Jaskier. "And I fell for it like the fool I am! I was afraid, scared to introduce her to you all in case you didn't like her because I thought she was _human_!"

The elf frowned as most eyes flipped to her. "I'm sorry," she said, soft and meaningful. "I never should've kept this from y-"

"Silence!" Thundered Jaskier, the scent of his emotions rising up like a pot about to explode. "I won't have you speak for him, girl. Sit down."

Alice did, stumbling back into her chair. She gazed up at Jaskier with wide eyes whilst Serrit's had narrowed as vehemence shone through in the air.

"You have no right to speak to her like that," spoke the traitor, tone low.

"So you'll stand up for a lady but not yourself?" Jaskier snarled, grin dangerous as he chittered a laugh. "How amusing, little bug."

Ilester had a feeling the new nickname wasn't meant kindly.

"You're wrong," Serrit hissed. "Apologise to her!"

"I'm here to hear one from you, not give one to her. She'll be here in a minute - you won't."

The room fell silent, atmosphere a whiplash cesspool of tension and anger as Jaskier reeled his emotions back in while Serrit unleashed his in a storm.

Suddenly, Serrit's hands were fisted in the neck of Jaskier's henley, drawing the fabric tight enough to choke. Ilester reacted on instinct, summoning his fangs from where he'd slung them over his chair. Kisten and Brovikel found purchase in his grip, only one being held to Serrit's neck as the others did the very same thing. In the matter of seconds there was a blade decagon around the cad's neck, a Wolf's steel sword pointed at the man's forehead.

"I'd suggest you let go," Lanir hissed, doing a double and aiming his second fang, Sinswe, at Serrit's crotch. The others caught on and instantly there were three more fangs aimed for his dick, two to each arm and another pressed into his chest. Ilester took immense joy in having Brovikel aimed for the man's dick.

"You make a good show," Serrit growled. It didn't look like he was letting go and Jaskier's wide grin wasn't helping his case. The Wolf's sword pressed forwards an inch, digging into the scrunched skin of the traitor's brow, drawing blood that trickled down the broad of his nose, curling down alongside his eye and cheek to look like a red tear. Finally, the man reconsidered. He stared into Jaskier's eyes, searching.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, sounding resigned as he released his grasp on Jaskier's shirt. Master rocked back, stumbling into the wall Letho and the Wolf's broad chests had created behind him. His legs gave out and he fell, grinning wildly as both men hurriedly caught him.

Jaskier sat on the floor as the two men supported his back and knocked his head back to let out a grandiose guffaw. The circle of blades around the traitor's neck wavered as everyone flicked their gaze down to him. Ilester wondered if this was what someone could call a psychotic break as Jaskier shook, laughing until tears came.

"Sheathe your blades," he gasped out, voice ragged between bouts of laughter. There was a moment where no one moved before they all withdrew - if Jaskier could be temperamental normally, he could be much worse if this really was some sort of break. Ilester lowered Kisten and pulled Brovikel away from the other's crown jewels and reluctantly sheathed them, having to walk back over to his chair to do so.

"Lemme up," Jaskier ordered, being pulled to his feet by the two men. The Wolf hovered before Jaskier brushed him off, snapping a quick, "Everyone sit."

There was a moment of commotion as they fell back into their chairs, everyone in the edge as they glared at Serrit - who now stood panting as Jaskier twirled over to him, long, beautiful grey skirt flaring out.

"There, there," their Master said all of a sudden, curling bandaged fingers around Serrit's jaw. The man had stilled at the contact but now he blinked. "I would never kill a human who had done nothing to me, and for that matter I don't care who you find a better half in - be they Troll, Goblin or Wraith. I have no say in your love lives, and that's the way we'll keep it. Although this is no excuse to bring people here and I expect you all to be sensible, other than that, I don't care."

Gerring started, "You were getting at something, Master?"

Humming, Jaskier nodded. "Guess I was," and whilst the fingers retracted he reached forth and slapped Serrit. "There. Now all is forgiven. Don't do it again."

Their Master turned on his heel, leaving a dazed Serrit palming his reddening cheek, blood dripping down his face, as their Master skipped back to his chair, bandaged feet scuffing the floor as he went. "I'd like some jelly for desert," he said.

Ilester sat there as Serrit was tugged back to his seat and wondered if that really was it. Jaskier returned the table and the wine and summoned them all some jelly that was the colour of their eyes. He watched the Wolf brush a stray hair out of Jaskier's eyes, the two smiling at each other, and wondered if they really didn't care.

"Excuse me," spoke up Alice in a brief lull of conversation. "Why does Stregobor want to kill you so badly?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> go check out the other fics in this series! OR else jaskier's gonna get you.


	17. we can't save everything in this broken world of ours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shit hits the fan
> 
> I'm not sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS : swearing, implied and referenced rape, referenced manipulation, mention of death/murder, Renfri got the short end of the stick, injury, horror, threatening behaviour, blood and trauma, hallucinations and PTSD, shock, messed up mages, injury and excessive blood loss, suicidal thoughts

Jaskier's heart ached at the question. Gazing at the eyes that watched him over their bowls of jelly and ice cream, he leant back in his chair and sighed. Then he rocked forth and completed the tedious task of bridging his bandaged fingers in front of him, elbows leaning heavily on the table.

"Once," he started, voice a cold void in the hall. "I had a Child Surprise."

The room reared back in surprise. The thick flow of honey suckle flooded his nose and Jaskier stared at how his bandages flowed around his fingers.

"She was a girl born under the prophet's Black Sun."

"What does this have to do with the mage?" Lanir questioned, only to fall silent as Pietr thumped his elbow into the boy's ribs.

"Stregobor was an avid believer in the curse of Lillit bringing forth sixty women to light her way with blood. He was one of the order to circulate the rumours of the girls being different, of them being afflicted by curses that demanded they be put into towers. In all truth, the girls were harmless," now he spoke to Alice's wide eyes. "But the people, nobles and peasants, had grown used to listening to great sorcerers preach rights and wrongs. They hunted down the girls, Stregobor going so far as to sneak himself into locations near the girls to gain their trust before killing them and performing autopsies on their bodies."

He pulled apart his fingers and sipped at his wine, pausing to let that sink in.

"I seen one of the bodies myself, after a contract in the early twelfth century pulled me further west than I'd anticipated. They were no different than any other corpse I'd ever seen and I've seen a lot of mangled people."

"And yet he still killed them?" Alice cried, aghast. "That's horrible!"

"I thought the same," he acknowledged. "So I hunted down the rumours, spreading the craze amongst princes that they needed to save their princesses from large stone towers. I rooted out Stregobor in the Creydon Court, found him whispering into the ear of a girl born under the sun. He'd wormed his way into the favour of the girl's jealous Stepmother, convincing the woman that the girl was a danger, adding this with reports of allegedly seeing the girl kill animals in the forest."

"And had she?" Kolgrim echoed.

"I watched her for a week and in that time she killed no animals. Later, I found out she'd put a rabbit caught in a trap out of its misery and the mage had seen. She was a nice girl, soft, naïve maybe but she had a good heart and was good with the blades she later used."

"What happened her?" Gerring asked, cautious. Jaskier had never told them this story, the tale always sticking close to his heart, so the older man was right to be cautious. For all he knew asking too soon could push nerves.

"I worked a contract, luring the Stepmother's son out of the castle into a field where Wargs lurked. I saved the boy, pushing him into the Law of Surprise and Destiny shone brightly on me."

"That was risky," Geralt commented. "You could've been gifted the palace dog for all you knew."

"Well I wasn't," he smirked. The dimming light in Geralt's eyes suggested he knew where this story was going. "The Stepmother agreed to it and we set up a rendezvous at the bridge across the city, come sunset. The girl was to meet me there."

The room was silent as he paused to take another drink of his wine. "She didn't."

Ragnar's mouth opened before he closed it, knowing better than to interrupt.

Jaskier drew a breath in so quick and vast, his lungs ached under the onslaught. "The Stepmother, Aridea, had sent her into the woods, where a gang of paid thugs attacked her. I made it there shortly after, finding one man murdered by something having been shoved through his eye. Later, I'd find it was her brooch, she'd used, plunging it into the man's eye until she hit his brain."

"Ingenious," Tarviel chirruped. "That's some fast thinking."

Jaskier nodded but continued.

"The men had... defiled her-" and there came the horrified, angry gasps, the threats upon humans already long dead, the quiver of an elf's lips. "So I killed the rest of the men who she'd left unconscious and went to the castle. I dropped the leader's head on the Queen's doorstep and said they'd attacked me. Told her she ought to fix her bandit infestation and _oh,_ the colour she went."

"What of the mage?" Serrit whispered, drawing a few glares for the briefest moment.

"He'd fled when I entered the city. For years I couldn't find my Child Surprise, nor could I find Stregobor. Everywhere I went there were echoes of them - magic here, a killed King there, slaughtered dwarves in a cave on one side of the Continent - until I finally came upon the town she'd settled in, assisted by a group of men she'd called family. Of course, she'd found Stregobor before I had, and had went to kill the man."

Geralt's head dipped. Jaskier uncurled his hands and swiped a finger over his Wolf's shaking hands, bandages skidding along his knuckles.

"She'd been stopped by a witcher, both of them manipulated into fighting for the sorcerer's entertainment. My Child Surprise died that day, a witcher walked away from Blaviken covered in blood and Stregobor ran free."

His Vipers sat in silence, eyes flickering between him and his Wolf.

"The Butcher of Blaviken," Letho noted. "Always did wonder how you got that name."

"Your Child Surprise was Renfri," said Geralt, no longer a question.

Jaskier took another sip of wine before setting the empty glass on the table. He hadn't spoken this much in one sitting in years.

"That doesn't explain why he's out to kill you," Ilester said.

"I messed with his plans for half a century and he's finally found me again," Jaskier would've shrugged but his bandages weren't loose up there. "This is old payback he's been sitting on for years."

A flickering blur appeared, shimmering in front of him. Jaskier didn't even have time to summon a Quen before his vision flickered white.

He came back to a greasy hand around his throat, pressing down on his airways as Stregobor grinned morbidly. His Vipers were shouting profanities, now held aloft by the far wall, suspended by the mage's magic, dimeritium chains curling around their bodies like pythons going for the kill. Jaskier glanced to them, noting the immense amount of Chaos it was likely using to keep the struggling witchers at bay, and flicked his fingers in an Aard.

Nothing happened.

Stregobor chuckled, "Not so great without your magic, are you, Jaskier?"

Dazed, he couldn't seem to get his thoughts under control, weakly grabbing at the man's surprisingly strong grip as his eyes rolled. His lungs weren't liking this, even if they didn't demand that much oxygen the call was still deafening. Jaskier's heart thumped slowly in his ears, unable to tell the difference between a blink and a second. He was off the floor, feet swaying uselessly under him as his legs screeched in pain. Alice had restored his burnt nerves only to result in Jaskier being able to feel the burns - she was going to fix it after dinner but he supposed that wasn't happening with the mage here.

"Nothing to say? No snappy remark? No apologies to make?" Stregobor grinned, as if Jaskier could speak past the crushing weight on his throat. "What a shame you had to survive that fire. I must say, I worked very hard on it."

Black spots invaded his vision. Jaskier lolled his gaze around, noting where the table had skittered away a few feet back, how all the chairs were slammed on their backs. His Vipers and Wolf struggled against the binds of magic, too strong to break, slowly weakening under the metal.

In realisation he looked down, trying to see Stregobor's hand. That was why he couldn't use Aard! The fucking whoreson was draining his magic through the contact, repurposing it for his own use. And wasn't there something ironic that it was Jaskier's own magic being used to keep his family back.

"Ah, finally noticed? I say, I thought you would've been quicker than this, Grandmaster." The mage mocked.

"Leave off!" Someone shouted, a mere hum over the din of Jaskier's furious body thumping in his ears.

With a snap of his fingers, Stregobor had gagged them all, even little Alice who was deathly silent, eyes wide. Geralt bored holes into his side, Jaskier hurrying to find a solution as his thoughts short-circuited with the lack of oxygen.

"Good," said Stregobor. "I just love some silence every now and then, don't you?" He nodded as if Jaskier had responded past the gaping mouth and weak squeezing of his wrist.

He was so tired. Felt his eyes roll back. The shifting of the boys got louder. The burns over his body ached, worse now that he had no magic to constantly lap over them and soothe himself. His hands were too sore to clench and he lost his grip of the mage's wrist. He was exhausted.

_Get up and do this,_ he heard an achingly familiar voice murmur. Jaskier pulled himself back just enough to see Ivar, standing over Stregobor's shoulder. The man looked sad. Jaskier didn't want him to be sad. _Fight,_ was the command, Ivar's lips moving to accompany the words.

Jaskier took note of how he'd fallen limp, how Stregobor's hand was still tight around his neck, how the shuffling to the right had grown deafening as his boys struggled, roaring around the cloths they'd been bound with.

Very suddenly, he thought of Ivar. Remembered how the man had pushed him into the hollow to save him, saw the flashes of black and gold crest over him in a wave, screams and booming shouts echoing down to him. His muscles quivered and his vision blanked out.

_Pain is consequence,_ he thought furiously over the haze. _Power past the pain and you get things done._

_Get things done..._ He snapped his eyes open, startling Stregobor if his jerk was anything to go by. Half delirious and _so fucking angry_ , Jaskier raised his hands again. Instead of going to grip the man's wrist, as he likely expected, he raised his hands above the other's arm, linking his fingers in a bridge as quick as he could and pulled down.

The snap of bone echoed in the room amidst Stregobor's pained yowl, the shifting from the boys growing silent as they watched. Jaskier felt their eyes on him as he was dropped, desperately trying to land on his left foot first. At the last second, Stregobor pushed a wave of magic at him, forcing him onto his right foot. Jaskier's leg buckled as he screamed out the breath he'd just caught.

How dare this man invade his keep, gag his kin and try to strangle him. How dare he get past the wards, how dare he blow up Twenty-Eight. Stregobor would die; he'd kill him.

Jaskier rocked to his feet just before Stregobor set his arm. He didn't give the mage a moment as he flung at him, making do without his blades for the moment. If he ignored the pain he'd get this done quicker -

_Get what done? Are you going to kill him here?_

He didn't know who that voice belonged to. He didn't much care.

Striking out at the mage, he got in a good jab to the ribs, forcing him back as he seethed. His magic was slowly trickling back but not in full enough force that he could actually do anything with it. Jaskier was lagging, slowing with each minute twitch. The burns along his legs ached, skin hot and sizzling at him again as he heaved punch after punch, only stuttering to a stop as Stregobor got tired of being battered and pulled up a shield that made his skin spark with electricity when he hit it.

They stood now, stuck at a tense standstill. Jaskier's hearing was gong in an out, differentiating between high pitched buzzing and the low thrum of Chaos trying to get back to him. Over the stench of magic, his nose refused to work, not telling him if he was bleeding or if one of the others were. He was at a disadvantage, disoriented and magick-less, burnt out of his wits with an aching body that refused to work and do what he wanted.

"Somehow you always manage to surprise me," mused the mage. Jaskier fought to keep him in focus and in his line of sight as the man began pacing circles around him. All he needed was a little more magic and he could fling a Somne at the guy when he was blabbering. "I always wondered why you never got to me before darling Renfri. We both know you could've, yet you _didn't_. Was it, perhaps, you were scared? Lazy? Too slow compared to a human?"

Jaskier managed a low grunt of annoyance, feeling like he was toppling over his own feet as he continuously spun on his left heel to keep the man in sight. If he let Stregobor into his blind spot this was all over and Jaskier would be nothing more than a smudge on the stone. Melitele knew what the man would do to his family if Jaskier fell.

"Was it, you _underestimated_ her?" Mused the mage. Jaskier was part-way wondering if this talk was a distraction of if the man genuinely wanted to risk letting him build his magic back up.

_Who's underestimating whom here?_ He found himself debating. He narrowed his eyes.

"Ah, of course." Stregobor said suddenly. He vanished for a moment and Jaskier started, hesitant to bend his knees in case they buckled as he stepped back. He strained his senses, only finding static spitting at him as he used the magic he'd accumulated to summon Viocar and Celbrem to him. The fangs hurtled over from where they'd fallen behind his chair what felt like miles away but before they could settle in his hands Stregobor reappeared, a step away from him and grabbed the fangs.

Jaskier spluttered, mouth dry as he tried to will his legs to move, tried to make his arms rise in a block, _anything_ as Stregobor grinned down at the blades and rose them level with his chest. It looked awkward as he held them both up.

Then Celbrem was shattered, Jaskier feeling the faintest echo along the magic that had summoned her. The charmed metal crumbled to less than dust as Stregobor laughed, calmly brushing his hand off on his robes. Jaskier gaped, barely able to comprehend the loss as the mage gloated.

"That didn't last as long as I thought it would," he hummed, flipping Viocar only to have to catch her with his own magic lest he cut a finger off. He grunted at the blade, looking sneeringly unhappy as he glowered at Jaskier. Magic flooded the air as he commanded, "On your knees."

A heavy wave of compulsion magic hammered down on him, Jaskier straining to remain standing as he reached for Viocar. The mage snorted at him and rested a heavy hand on his head, pushing down the weight of a glacier. "I said," he repeated. " _On_ _your_ _knees_."

As his control over his legs vanished, sending him to the floor, he couldn't stop the low sound that bubbled forth in the back of his throat. At some point the boys had began struggling again, tugging fiercely against the chains binding them but now they began screaming through their gags. Stregobor glanced over to them with a sickly smile.

"Make sure to watch closely, everyone," he announced before Viocar was thrust into Jaskier's chest.

Stuck on his knees, hands quaking as he tried to lift them, Jaskier stared down at his fang sticking out of his chest and was reminded of the ambush so long ago. Had the mage done this on purpose, making it look as if the blade had pierced through where the spear had? Was this his revenge - to haunt Jaskier with years of memories he'd spent battling in his sleep only to wake up and be forced to face them in daylight?

He was so caught up that he didn't even realise the low whining sound that had filled the room was coming from him. Stregobor sneered down at him, brushing a hand through his hair, tugging on it. Viocar was pushed deeper, too far to the side to nick his spine but high enough that Jaskier couldn't tell if he'd gotten the underside of his heart. Past the immense _burningscorchingbuzzing_ pain he was numb.

_I'v_ _e lived long enough,_ he thought.

_Fight,_ murmured Ivar.

_I've done all I can,_ he sighed, feeling blood run down his lips.

_Son,_ whispered Ivar, forlorn.

_Let me die,_ he begged.

Stregobor pushed Viocar through his body, until the flesh tore along his back and the blade's handle was barely visible past the red coating of his blood. Witchers were meant to bleed out slowly, to give their healing factors a chance, but the blood that gushed over the mage's hands was just a bit too much, flowing a little too fast to leave hope for life.

"Good boy," patronized Stregobor, yanking Viocar free alongside a pat on the head. Jaskier watched, vision blurry as the world swished around him like the ocean waves lapping at his boots. He was dying, knew this even as the mage peered at the blood soaked blade, ignoring how Jaskier's kin screamed and howled, and pulled forth his magic once more.

Viocar was gone before her fragments hit the floor. Jaskier _ached_.

"Your boys are saying you need your potions," chuckled the man, pushing Jaskier to the floor face-first. His jaw clacked off the stone as he drooled purpling blood, body unresponsive as he lay there. "But I don't see how you could come back from this."

The mage's fingers darted to the gaping wound in his back, digging in for an agonising moment as he crouched over him. Jaskier lost the will to breathe as he spasmed until the fingers withdrew, leaving trails of sparking pain in their wake.

"Although," mused Stregobor, as if an afterthought. "You did manage to drag yourself back to this hole after those soldiers got you - took a month but you made it. Hmm, maybe I will take the potions."

He stood, briskly snapping his fingers. An explosion rocked through the keep. Jaskier made himself look at his family as the realisation Stregobor had blown up all the potions in a pique of caution set in.

Letho looked at him, the cold hard determination in his eyes saying he'd kill the mage, demanding for him to hold on. Beside him, Geralt and Alice were staring at him with something lost in their expressions, only Geralt's held the angry sort of pain that declared he'd be joining Letho. He couldn't bring himself to look at he others, not because he was scared of what he'd see but because they were out of his eyeline and he genuinely couldn't move his head anymore.

Bleeding out over the stones of his own keep, he hadn't thought he'd go out this way. Jaskier's lungs burned, sprouting a cough that had every muscle in his body spasming before he became jelly on the floor, barely able to tell up from down as his blood filled a pool on the floor.

"Well, as much as I would love to hang around," Stregobor started. "I think it would be even nicer for you to die all alone whilst I take your family and pull them apart. Slowly, in _honor_ of your great sacrifice."

And then, with a low hum, they were gone. The mage had taken his family, wall now bare of the chains and them, and had left him. Jaskier felt a broken sense of peace as his eyes fluttered shut.

Geralt was glaring at Stregobor one minute, Jaskier hacking up blood by the gallon as he lay limp on the floor, the next he's off the wall, landing with a thump in a dimeritium lined cell. A quick glance around has him in some sort of castle dungeon, if the old stone and dingy smell are indicators. He may not have his full senses right now but it doesn't require a sense of smell above average to be able to smell the nose crinkling stench of rot and mold. It's disgusting but not enough to distract him as he turned in the large cell to find the rest of the Vipers with him.

"Fucking whoreson!" Letho boomed, struggling to his feet. "You bastard! You call that a _great sacrifice_? You're nothing but a coward! Bring him here!"

Stregobor appeared before the thick cell bars, the snapshot into a cold dungeon corridor cut off as his robes flared out. His smirk was asking for him to be punched in the face and as soon as Geralt got out by gods was he giving him one. "I'm afraid not, Letho. He's probably dead already, surely you seen the blood?" He raised his own reddened hands. "It's moments like these I wish the dimeritium wasn't so effective. What fun it would be to smear the walls with his blood and have you all go insane from the smell. Alas, I've had enough excitement for today. Enjoy trying to get out."

They sat there, stunned as the mage flounced off. The loud taps of him striding up some stairs somewhere echoed in the crampt cell, barely big enough for five nevermind the twelve inside. One of the younger Vipers, Lanir or something, murmured, "What do we do?"

The elven girl, Alice, hiccuped, wobbling to her feet as Ragnar tugged everyone up in a bid to make space. "But Jaskier! He was bleeding, we have to do something-"

"You see this metal," a Viper cut her off, violently jabbing at the walls. "This shit blocks out magic, makes us useless and fucks with our healing rate and our senses. Even if we did get out, we have no weapons. How do you suggest we take down the mage who floored Master?"

"Auckes," Letho rumbled warningly.

"Jaskier went down because he was caught off guard," Gerring hissed. "You seen the glow around the mage's hands - that was him leeching out his magic. If the boy had've had his magic he would've crushed Stregobor and he knew it."

"He probably coulda beat him without if he was in top shape," added a guy with his hair cut short to a low buzz, not counting the top hair he'd pulled back into a man bun. Geralt was half sure he was called Ilester, if he'd been listening to the chatter at dinner correctly.

"That won't help us now," another boy, Pietr huffed. It wasn't exactly cold in the cell but with them all squished together it was warm. Geralt stood against the bars, thankful Stregobor hadn't charmed them to react if touched.

"What about your medallions?" He grunted and was met with silence.

Serrit - who he _definitely_ knew the name of - plucked his pouncing viper from under his tee and closed his eyes. "The magic stream is ruptured. If Master's alive he'd be able to trace us but we can't do anything. The wards around this place wouldn't let us leave either."

"How do you know about the tracing?" Alice asked, tone curious.

"The medallions are linked," Ragnar explained, giving the simplified version. Geralt had asked Jaskier about the medallions and the man had given him an in-depth explanation, even if it had been spread between eating pots of jelly. "So deeply that if one is placed somewhere the others will be able to locate it."

"We can't stand here and hope that Master doesn't bleed out," snapped Kolgrim - who Geralt knew suffered from very bad luck. "You seen the sheer volume on the floor! He was dying!"

"Kol," Ilester nudged him; a gentle warning.

Letho probably would've been stinking up the room with his anger, if Geralt could smell it. As it was, the mountain of a man growled lowly and spared the bars a wild look. "What's the bet I can pull them down?"

"Fifty crown for the third hit," Tarviel jumped in. "And a special bottle of my glowbug beer."

Geralt quickly backed away from the bars as Letho began testing their integrity, shaking them. He stood and wondered if the Vipers were really betting at a time like this.

"I'll do sixty for a minute, minimum ten hits," another Viper piped up.

"Forty for three."

"You can't bet lower than what's been said!"

"Yes, I damn can!"

One of the Vipers slapped another. "No, you can't!"


	18. where the wind blows, the sails do follow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Vipers try out a bit of magic, Jaskier goes a bit overboard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: swearing, imprisonment/capture, implied panic attacks, (reader may feel claustrophobic reading about small space), severe injury and blood loss, blood, wound recovery, reckless impulsiveness,

Ragnar sat back and watched as Letho pounded at the door. Eventually, when the boy had roped the Wolf into helping and they'd both tired, they sat down and there was silence.

"So," Tarviel trailed off, knees shucked close to his chest where he sat beside Pietr, both of them nearly on top of each other. In fact, the cell was so crampt that there was no room between them all as they sat. Alice, as the smallest, had somehow ended up on the Wolf's lap - as her and Serrit had seemingly fallen out - and Ilester on Letho's due to his ribs protesting sitting against the cool stone wall (and also because Letho was so big that he was taking up room for three and it was only fair).

"Any ideas?" Lanir finished, having draped himself over Pietr's lap with his feet in Gerring's. His upper body was mainly leaning against Tarviel's side, forcing his head into the crook between his legs and chest even if it was uncomfortable.

"Why can't you use the medallions?" Alice asked.

"The wards are stunting them," Ragnar explained again. He'd take another infomercial over the game of eye-spy he could see Auckes gearing up for.

"If we made this place a destination you think we could portal out?" Kolgrim wondered.

"Without the wards, probably," Gerring huffed. He fell silent, frown growing as he stared at the booted feet over his legs. "Ragnar."

He grunted in turn.

"Remember how Master made the medallions?"

"Of course," Ragnar and Gerring had been the only two invited to the Elemental Room, told to sit back and watch whilst Jaskier chanted mantra after mantra. They'd been tasked with pulling the man out of the room if the spells went wrong and triggered a fallback.

"How did he place the magic in them?" The older man pushed.

Ragnar thought back, to thick swirling magic so strong that he was nose-blind for days afterwards, how Jaskier had stood up suddenly and laughed as he clutched the pile of medallions, pulling them away from his intricate circle he'd formed.

"He used his magic," he said, unsure of what Gerring was going for. "In the Element Room."

"He put them in a circle," reminded the elder. Ragnar felt his eyes widen and looked over to the man. Their gaze caught and they spoke through dilating pupils and flickering eyes.

"Medallions off," he announced, voice low. While the boys blinked themselves back to life, he pulled his own chain off, placing his medallion in the middle of the rectangular cell.

Auckes nudged the medallion with his boot and got a mighty push. "Hey!" The man squawked, immediately withdrawing his leg. "What are we doing?"

"If we can form a suitable portal with the medallions' energies we may be able to leave," Ragnar said, earnestly trying to remember everything that Jaskier had said about the magic and the stream.

"Sounds too easy," Kolgrim muttered, intimately aware of what situations like these were like.

"It isn't," Letho threw his medallion into Ragnar's arm, Ilester's following quickly after. Ragnar grunted at them but got to arranging a circle that would fit them all in the small space he had. "If it's done wrong it could kill us. The magic stream is volatile to everyone but Jaskier - because he's the creator."

"Even if the portal doesn't work, we may be able to communicate with Master," Gerring said, adding his own medallion to the pile along with the three youngest ones'.

"And if we can't?" Alice dared ask.

"The magic will backfire," grunted the Wolf, surprisingly knowledgeable. "If a portal doesn't open a black hole could."

"Ah," murmured the elf. "That's not good."

"No it is not," Ragnar agreed, finally adding the remaining medallions to the circle. It looked like a shield of arms, in a way, a jagged circle of vipers lunging. In a way almost hypnotic, the metal slotted together, rough edges coming together smoothly to form a plaque of sorts. There was a gaping hole in the middle where Jaskier's medallion would've been.

"Will it work without Master?" Serrit queried.

Ragnar didn't need to look up to know half the cell's inhabitants were glaring at the man.

"It's your fault we're here anyway," snarled Tarviel, tone thick with vitriol.

"Just had to go betray us, didn't you," joined Auckes blithely.

"I didn't get him into the keep!" Protested the traitor.

"But you ensured he was weakened," bristled Pietr. "If you hadn't of planted the bomb then we wouldn't be here. You set off a chain reaction, _Serrit,_ and now we're stuck in a cell!"

"Quit your squabbling," Gerring snapped. "We'll need to hold hands for this so everyone needs to sit up."

"My medallion is charmed with a few of Jaskier's protections," the Wolf said over the shuffling of people adjusting themselves. "Would it help?"

Ragnar looked to Gerring. The older man shrugged.

"Alright," he held out his hand. "Give it here. Not like we could be worse off."

The heavy wolf carved into the metal was placed in his hands, Alice having leaned forward to ensure the Wolf didn't distrupt their space if he moved.

"Everyone needs to hold hands, even you two: Alice, Wolf."

"Is there something we need to do?" Alice prodded as they all linked up, hands held tightly.

"Ragnar and I will start the summoning mantra, activating the magic. You all need to close your eyes and think of where we need to go or else it won't work."

Ragnar added, "While you're thinking of the keep, you need to feel the magic. Everyone should be somewhat capable of this, especially you, girl. Try to tug on the magic, showing it where you need to go."

"Let's do this," Tarviel, sounding rather tired.

The others closed their eyes, air tense. Ragnar glanced down at the medallion circle one last time, chest heavy. They'd been here a few hours, all logic pointed towards Jaskier being dead.

But they needed to do this. The mage hadn't made an appearance since he'd left them, the boys were dulling and the cell was too small. Already Ilester had been set off by the walls, lungs caging his breaths as they'd talked him through one of his worst panics. Tarviel would buckle next, Ragnar knew. He could tell from how the boy was sagging, Pietr trying his best to keep him upright as Lanir tried to reassure him with his presence.

Gerring cleared his throat to begin, Ragnar looking over to him, shrowded in the shadows of the windowless cell. The older man's eyes glowed amber as they locked gazes, both giving one final nod before they too closed their eyes.

The magic of the medallions was toxic, enthralling as Ragnar mentally leaned towards it. Whatever spells Jaskier had used had given the metal quite an aura. Thankfully they didn't need those same spells now, for Ragnar did not know them.

_"Z połamanych wież i zmiętych pajęczyny,"_ their words mingled, forming a soothing barrier between them and the cold cell's walls. As the magic washed over him, Ragnar thought of home, of Jaskier, pushing determination into his mind as they called to the magic. _"Od gór chłodnego kamienia do głębokich oceanów ognia."_

All they needed was the magic to recognise them. If it did that, they'd have an instant portal. If not, they'd be dead before they realised.

Knowing Jaskier was bleeding out, near death's door, Ragnar didn't care if he died when the other man did too. But, so long as there was a chance they could help him, he'd do all he could to repay their long-lasting debt to the man who'd rallied them for revenge, cutting off the killings before Nilfgaard wiped out the Vipers permanently.

As the medallions quivered, creating a horrid screeching sound, they chanted quicker, a manic tone besieging the surety they'd wished to have.

_"Zwożąc nasze powołania, poczuj naszą moc, przekarmijcie nas,"_ chanting this thrice, the hum-drum of Stregobor clattering down the stairs was nearly unheard. The mage screamed for them to cease and in retaliation, Ragnar and Gerring began shouting the hymns. _"Odpowiedz nam, my, którzy przestrzegają twoich zasad i zostaliśmy zatrzymani przez korupcję, która zabrudziła naszego Mistrza!"_

Stregobor's magic swirled towards them. Their circle grew tight, the medallions now thrumming with cause. _"Pomóż nam."_

_Aid us._ Ragnar thought in tandem. _We who have abided by your rules, we who honor your power, we who need saviour._

The medallions sung.

No longer was there a stone cold floor underneath them. Now, the scent of home wafted past the charred, crisp tang of lilies and sharp, bitter ozone. Ragnar opened his eyes to a black and white world, the keep sturdy around them. As the circle fell apart, medallions clattering to the floor in front of them, the world around them buzzed.

"Have I gone colour blind?" Ilester coughed, slinking off Letho as he squinted around. The keep looked the same as it had decades ago, before the sacking and Jaskier had renovated it.

Everything was either black or white. Even Lanir's bright, blue dyed hair was black.

Ragnar cursed. Gerring sighed.

It was Letho who spoke. "We made it back."

There was none of the joy there should've been. The group understood this, stumbling to their feet but remaining near the medallions.

"But?" Urged Lanir, pulling at his hair with something short of curiosity.

"But we're in the wrong dimension," Ragnar frowned.

"Fuck," cursed the Wolf.

Ragnar wasn't sure he could've said it any better.

He woke slowly, consciousness rising haltingly as if traveling through a thick swamp. The world blurred around him. A blade poked his cheek.

Jaskier rolled his head, eyes feeling glued shut as he strained against the congealed blood he'd lain in. Assessing for damage, he found himself no worse off than when he'd fallen unconscious. Except for the amount of blood around him, thankfully mostly congealed meaning it was old, indicating his healing factor was at least doing something. Oh, and the blade that tapped his cheek was new.

Startling so bad he lost his breath, eyes shooting open, Jaskier blinked at the blade hovering above him, centimetres from his cheek. As if upon seeing him awake, it whirred off and Jaskier resigned himself to hallucinating through the blood loss.

He needed a Swallow as soon as possible. The sooner he sealed the wound still choppily seeping blood, the sooner he could get his kin back. A White Rafford's Decoction wouldn't be so bad either, a Blizzard too - for his reflexes. If he was to get to the mage he'd need to be on top of his game.

At the soft flicker of magic signalling a blade's return to her master, Jaskier worked on opening his eyes again, unsure of when they'd closed. He blinked up at the fang, noting the achingly familiar red ribbon tied to its handle.

He was hallucinating Quenisve. The blade he'd lost to a Selkiemore's stomach back in the eight hundreds. Superb. Great. Jaskier was fucked.

The only exception was that Quenisve looked very real and was balancing a bottle of Swallow on the flat of her blade.

_Quenisve always was more in-tune with my magic,_ he mused and let his eyes flutter shut, resigned to lying where he was until this visual blunder vanished.

Fangs were special blades, designed with a certain amount of magic to be imbibed. Quenisve had been his first blade to be formed, Jaskier pouring just a bit too much magic into her. He'd melted the mold and sent everyone's medallions haywire at the transfer. Gerring had grumpily suggested he go easier on his next blade and so Viocar was nearly bereft of magic.

His first blade had always been special though, capable of spinning out of her sheath before Jaskier himself even knew he needed her. He'd loved her, harbouring her as his favourite. Losing her that rainy, bleak day to some backwater Selkie had hit him hard.

Not wanting to replace her, he'd went centuries with only one fang, Viocar, alone. It had only been after Ivar had thrown Elsiben to him had he realised two blades was better than one. When Elsiben had shattered after the Higher Vampire, he'd forged Celbrem - who barely had enough magic in her to come when summoned.

Or rather, _had._

Now he was bladeless and imagining his long lost fang was back. Maybe he was already dead. Funny; he'd thought he'd stop bleeding when he died.

The ring of glass being set down echoed in the large hall. Jaskier peeled his eyelids open to watch as the blade wormed her sharp tip into the side of the cork and successfully uncorked the Swallow.

_This is impossible,_ he thought, chittering out a lost laugh as the Quenisve-imposter gently nudged the potion-bottle closer towards him. The laugh pulled on his chest, a sharp fiery pain ripping through him as he once again spat blood. If he wasn't compromised with this position - laying in his own blood, limbs unresponsive, hallucinating from blood loss - he didn't know how he couldn't be.

Amusingly enough, along the magic bond that linked blade and Viper, Jaskier could feel the blade-replication of worry from Quenisve.

_Insane, I'm going insane,_ he was sure of it. Even more so as the blade scooted the glass towards him, gently leveraging the potion to pour it into his mouth. There was a great chance he was hallucinating in all forms of sense and was actually downing a bottle of bleach for all he knew but he didn't really care. Jaskier swallowed the supposed potion, taking refuge in the fact most poisons were useless to him thanks to his mutations.

Quenisve felt relieved. The blade giving a sharp tingle as she nestled against the broad of his nearest arm. Jaskier felt the world slip away, the boil of a potion rushing through his veins as he did so.

When he woke his chest was part-way healed and the blade beside him was assuredly real - certainly Quenisve herself. Managing to get onto his side, wary of the way his knees tingled, Jaskier palmed the blade and felt her rise into his touch.

"Missed you, baby," he spluttered, voice catching in places in his throat as he gasped, grinning loopily. As he began the tedious process of standing without straining his chest wound or the majority of his burns, she slotted herself at the small of his back and pushed him upright.

When he stood, panting and aching with a blade hovering in his hand and acting as a wall when he was too far from the other real ones, he asked. "The potion?"

And somehow, he knew she'd gotten it from the secret stash he kept in the library, hidden behind the hearth's painting. He silently praised her, limping along the passages in an effort to clean himself up. His chest needed to be stitched together or at least bandaged and he needed to wipe the blood from himself. Showing up anywhere blood stained was a recipe for disaster. He wouldn't do Stregobor the joy.

After ten minutes, not having gotten any further than the kitchens, he cursed his entire existence for putting all the bathrooms too far away. Quenisve leaned towards the pantry, obviously wanting him to eat to replenish his strength, but Jaskier knew if he sat now he wouldn't get up again.

Painfully, he let the fang go, allowing her to hover by herself. The action cost him no energy nor magic, the blade itself using up the imbibed magic within to do such an action. Most fangs could barely sustain themselves for long enough to fling themselves to their master but all of Jaskier's - except Celbrem (he'd went a little too soft on her) - had always been able to hover around him if he fell unconscious, as a protective measure.

Quenisve skittered a small circle around him as he bent over, tugging a clean cloth from the drawer. He dragged himself over to the sink, spitting more blood when he got there, before mustering the strength to reach out and spin the tap on.

Suddenly, he realised he wouldn't be able to reach the running water with the cloth if he sat down in front of it, leaning against the cabinets like he wanted to. Sour about this, he dropped the cloth into the sink to soak and pulled himself onto the counter top with shaking arms, reluctant to use up more magic than necessary in case he was suffering from a limited supply whilst he recovered. Such had happened before - after the ambush on the road - and it had taken him months to recover from the magical exhaustion.

Heaving, Jaskier slumped against the back of the wall and struggled against the cry that attempted to bubble up as his wound whacked off the cool stone wall. Now nearly couped in half over the sink, he grabbed the cloth and gently rubbed it over his blood-soaked, aching skin, beginning at his face in an effort to delay the inevitable pain of pulling his shirt off.

The cloth, although previously having been soft in his hands, now felt like he was rubbing gravel over tender skin. Tears pricked his eyes and Jaskier berated himself for being weak, trying to uphold a calming breathing technique. Quenisve spun in the air, shooting off towards the pantry door with a buzz.

He focussed on rubbing the cloth over his face, trying to scrub off too much blood with too cold water. A minute later, Quenisve returned, a cut of uncooked steak speared through on her blade. Jaskier looked up at her insistent whirring, wondering when she'd become so loud.

The cloth felt heavy in his hands as he rung it out weakly, the once white now a thorough red. He glanced between the sink and the fang before making a compromise.

"I'll eat it," he grunted, letting the cloth slop back into the water as his fingers flushed numb. "But you have to cut off my shirt."

And then there was a steak in his hand, his shirt fluttering around him in strips. Quenisve chittered as she neared his chest wound, evidently not liking what she 'seen' as she sped off, spinning out of the kitchens. Jaskier let her go, chewing at his raw cut.

Witchers could consume anything so long as it gave them energy. Raw meat was not unusual to have after a close call or for a hurried meal. Sometimes fires wouldn't light, in the rain or gale, and witchers needed to eat with their fast metabolisms and demanding lifestyle. The tales about witchers being child-eaters probably weren't that far off - one could only imagine what desperate witchers would do. Jaskier had most certainly done worse.

When he'd finished the steak, Quenisve still wasn't back. Jaskier swallowed the last mouthful and made the strenuous effort of grabbing his cloth to start dabbing at his chest.

It took an embarrassing amount of time to tamp down the urge to scream at the pain of the cloth digging into the wound. Jaskier nearly passed out, twice, and the world was towering around him when he finally finished. Exhausted, he silently debated if he should Igni himself or go through the energy-splurge of stitching himself up. He made the futile action of dunking the cloth back into the running water and spared a moment for how the sink was now swathed in red. Most of the blood stuck, congealed and tacky. It forced him to rub harder, digging deeper than he would've liked just to clean the surface. What didn't stick made the towel heavy, making him wring it out more times than enough.

Soon, he was left with blood-sodden bandages on all appendages and an odd skirt that was some mix between red and brown. Jaskier huffed down at it, knowing he'd have to burn it later. Then, he set to work on the bandages, starting first on his left arm, to give his still bleeding (but at a trickle now) chest wound another chance to seal without congealed blood or dirt in the way.

His arm came back, burns having receded to patches of thin, shiny skin after the numerous Swallows and Alice had done their work. Jaskier wasn't too sure what state his hand was in, as it was almost entirely red past the staining of the blood he'd lain in. He leaned over and shucked some water over himself before moving onto his left leg. His knees were numb, and whilst the skin around the pits of his knees was leathery, he knew he'd be feeling them later. Alice had healed the nerves earlier, and he'd been able to walk, so he put the numbness down to either the Swallow, shock or blood loss.

Once his left leg was done, he peeled off his right leg's bandages with his right hand once more. Both legs looked far better than they had been, and if he got Alice back to go a few more rounds on them, he was sure there would be no more scarring than there already had been. He braced the sharp pain and the tightness in his left arm to get his right arm clear of the canvas and before soon there was a puddle of soiled, blood-soaked bandages at his feet.

Seeing as he was still on the countertop, he did his best to wipe himself down with the cloth, uncaring if he was dripping water everywhere. So what if Gorthur Gvaed was almost always cold? He wouldn't be getting hypothermia any time soon. Plus, he had the excuse of dealing with a large hole in himself and assuredly broken ribs that he couldn't yet feel.

Jaskier had managed to rip the wet skirt off himself before he wondered where Quenisve had went to. Second thinking himself, he palmed his forehead for heat and found himself bone-cold. No fever then. Although the fang had given him meat, which had been real and he most certainly hadn't accidentally eaten anything of himself in a delirium. Confused, he decided to leave it and moved on to the scraggy mop that was his hair.

It was matted beyond saving with the state of his hands. At the thought of using his fingers to thread through it, his joints ached. And, sure maybe that was old age but they suggested a very good idea. There was blades stashed everywhere over the Tir mountains themselves, along with emergency rations and blankets and such. Most of them were along the trails to Gvaed, but there was a fair few down in the hollow and around the lesser walked (but still walked) paths. Jaskier had stashed most of them after the sacking, paranoia niggling a way into his brain, but most of the ones inside the keep were stashes of potions and blades - the knives being used during particularly violent games of winter sneak.

Plus, he was in the kitchens. Not like there was a blade shortage here.

Still, he grabbed one of the switchblades and thumbed it, making sure it was sharp enough before pulling up out of his awkward bent position to sit back against the wall. He couldn't risk opening up his chest again or else he really might not wake back up.

He needed to save his kin. _Would_. He would.

Working up a trill in his throat only to realise his throat was horribly dry, he stooped over the sink and palmed some water into his mouth. Then he spun the tap off and bunched his blood-bathed hair into a loose grasp. He readied the knife and pushed.

The clump of hair rested in his hands, falling into the sink to slop as a pile of dirt as what remained of his hair fell around his ears. Jaskier sat up once more, adopting a forwards-feeling pose with the blade as he skimmed it over his scalp. Hair fluttered down his back, his head tilted in an attempt to avoid hairs getting into his wound. He was going for an undercut-look, leaving hopefully enough at the top so it looked natural enough whilst making it look as if he'd shaved the sides.

It was tricky and annoying when he was forced to stall whilst his right arm muscles spasmed, biting down on his lips to cut off a choked cry. Before he was finished, Quenisve returned, an old shirt pierced in such a way that it created a pouch for things to rest in. The fang settled the shirt-pouch opposite him, on the other side of the sink, safe from the blood, and Jaskier watched as the cloth fell back to reveal the contents. A needle and thread took residence on the top layer, alongside a half-empty bottle of alcohol. These were settled atop a pair of black socks, the socks sat atop a sturdy, leather-padded tunic and what looked to be a pair of kevlar trousers Tarviel had gifted him years ago.

Jaskier looked at the stuff and offered up a lop-sided grin. He let his right hand fall lax, dropping the switchblade into the sink. "Come give me an undercut, will you?"

Quenisve did, chirruping as she blazed over and skimmed over his scalp, cutting the rest of the hair along the sides short and giving the top a brief flutter. Jaskier trailed his hands through it, feeling the greasy strands short with a noticeable difference compared to the fade and nodded in thanks. His fang vibrated as if she understood and settled into his lap. For a while, they sat there, Jaskier running his fingertips over the cool of her metal.

Magic spiked and his medallion shivered, humming. He glanced down to it, feeling as his boys begged to be let into the stream with pretty elven words. Humming along to the fitful bouncing of the magic, he weakly clutched his medallion and delved into the stream.

Worlds surrounded him, flickering by in the blink of an eye as he cemented his standing in Gorthur Gvaed. Quenisve thrummed in his lap as he curled his left hand around her in a loose grip, Jaskier content to sit there and bathe in the murmur of his magic.

_Aid us,_ came Ragnar's voice, the distant screaming of Stregobor in the background. Jaskier tapped into the circle of magic they'd formed, everyone linking hands and felt for a moment as if he was standing with them, in the center.

He looked at his kin, attempting to summon the ancient magic of the stream - a fool's endeavour. Knowing they were in extreme danger, to even think of doing such a thing, he reached out and gave them a bit of a push.

The worlds circled around him, the stars bright in the back as the heady coil of magic wormed into his aura, the tendrils of black ink pouring down his throat as he shook, feeling his chest burn as he healed. His arms and legs tingled, the stream shaking around him as he called on it to heal him. Amidst the quaking he lost track of his boys, only knowing that they'd successfully gotten away from Stregobor.

Hastily, Jaskier retreated from the stream, eyes flying open to the knowledge that his Vipers were safe in his little bubble dimension for the time being. He'd kill Stregobor for hurting them whilst giving them a chance to recover before bringing them back. On a final note, while he was still in tune so deeply with the magic around him, he swam out and tweaked the wards, ensuring Stregobor would not be entering and catching him off-guard ever again.

The fang in his lap shivered and brought him back. Quenisve chirped up at him, rising to hover and affectionately tap her handle off his jaw lightly. Jaskier gave the clothes to his right a long look before deciding on his course of action.


	19. done a lotta things but none this wrong, who's gonna save me now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stregobor meets the end but who has won?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: swearing, suicidal thoughts, implied/referenced mental breakdown, PTSD themes, previous injury, STREGOBOR (he's his own warning but he's real bad in this chap), mindcontrol, lack of consent, sexual assault/rape, injury, graphic depictions of torture, warning for vomit, broken bones, mention of canon character death, death themes,
> 
> i'm trying to overtag but the sexual assault/rape is not an excess. it happens please be safe.
> 
> SEXUAL ASSAULT/RAPE WARNINGS: if this topic will trigger you I suggest you stop while the going is good.  
> SEGMENT BEGINS: 'Simply watching the Viper dance along--' continues to 'The man stood from his kneel'.

He took his time. Slow. Meticulous. Every detail was searched. Each second of data was consumed. Magic thrummed through his chest and his heart and his head and his hair and Jaskier forgot what it was like to think. Worlds blurred past, universes bloomed and faltered; he concentrated on what he needed.

Stregobor. Castle. Sands. Magic. Wards.

_Destroy that which will hurt you._

The wards peeled away under his fingers - even if the appendages themselves weren't submerged deeper than the tips. Chaos swirled around him, trying to choke and push him down. Around his neck, his medallion was heavier than the entirety of Gorthur Gvaed.

Jaskier hummed small, fragmented tunes as he latched onto the magic that swirled as an omnipresent mist; a gloom he could not get rid of.

Stregobor had holed up in the middle of the Zerrikanian deserts, likely the Great Korath, amidst the towering sand dunes and bright reflections of the sun that glimmered make-believe visions in the edges of your sight. The mage had taken refuge in an old castle, a crumbling ruin half buried in the dusts.

When he portalled in, the wards rippled. A sandstorm battered at the old stone, flecking mould and grains of eroded stone everywhere. The corridor he arrived in had -no doubt- _once_ been strong and pristine, assuredly it had _once_ stood as testament to its masters perseverance and the stones had gleamed, polished and clean, and tapestries had likely clung to the walls, unshifted by warded off chills.

Now, the castle was in ruin. More than half of the courtyards and the first few original floors were buried under heaps, _mountains,_ of sand. The visage grinned up at him when he peered through the cracked and holed stone. No longer did tapestries hang, instead moss and mould and chipping stone lined the corridors in a morbid faux-presentation of - long lost or non-existent - valour.

It was abysmal. The very image alone made Jaskier stir with emotion, although if negative or positive he was not sure.

His chest ached, the magic having mended flesh enough for him to push a needle and thread through it to stitch his skin back together. All four of his limbs hung heavy, phantom arcs of pain swirling up from burns that had dulled to meek splotches of red, irritated skin. No longer was he nearly frozen with pain, raised patches of what seemed like rashes littering his form where the burns had once been, but the psychological pain was tremendous.

Imagined aches and brusies would not stop the Grandmaster Viper from ripping the cowardly mage's flesh from his skin. Whispering tones of hurt would not stunt his mission, would do nothing to affect how he would cup the monster's eyes before pushing a finger through one and letting the thing watch as the witcher slowly and _painfully_ ripped him apart.

No- _it._ He would rip _it_ apart, limb by limb, strip of flesh per strip of flesh, muscle pilfered from marrow, tendons casually untwined whilst still attached, nerves grabbed at their synapses and crushed.

Was it possible to be mad with grief? Or anger? Truthfully, he no longer knew what drove him. Just the fact that this needed to be done. The urge to take action kept him going.

~~_He had to keep going or else he'd fall and not get back up._ ~~

Every corridor was identical. Mould, cremated stone, broken stone, crushed stone, sand, old archways that led into former rooms that were now husks and flooded with torrents of sand that would drown a man quicker than he could blink. The rotten stench of old wood permeated the castle, former doors slumped to the sides, old bark twisted and gruelled out of shape, bent over like old hags.

A witcher surveyed. The Viper analysed. The Bloodied Snake drew his fang, wary of the inactivity of the mage he was hunting. The Crusher of Nations hummed low in his chest and remembered buttercups sprouting forth under the Usurper's boots. The Grandmaster of the Viper Witchering School wondered where he would place his newest trophy, what would he pick? An eyeball, perhaps?

~~_Eyeballs looked good in jars._ ~~

Jaskier felt for the wards, becoming confused when he found none. The magic had wavered and responded before at his touch and gentle prodding. Now it almost seemed as if the protection magics had fallen away, crumbled to the same smarting red dust that whistled through the desolate corridors with every howl of the wind.

Above, around, outside, inside; everywhere the sandstorm battered. At the walls, in the walls, through the walls. The fury of nature clawed at his skin and eyes when it could and was loud enough to rouse the dead. The winds were heavy, the sands were sharp, Jaskier's determination shone like a beacon in the haze. Such emotion warmed him inside-out. It kept him alive and made him _want._ It made him _want_ to kill Stregobor.

~~_Lies._ ~~

~~_He'd kill Stregobor anyway._ ~~

Determination made him _want_ to make the monster hurt. Lilted him closer to the edge of sanity, further south than he'd ever been.

If he didn't complete his mission he may not come back. Not because _it_ would kill _him_ but because determination would swallow Jaskier up and never let him go. If the mage was let free with a clean slate, the witcher himself would not be able to continue.

Quenisve hummed, vibrating in a hand he no longer felt the fingers of. Permanently, his eyes were squinted against the sands. Sight was hard come by. His chest ached.

But he was a witcher. He'd seen all the injustices of the world and he'd survive a little pain. ~~_He was a monster too, after all._~~

Stregobor's image flickered at the end of the corridor. Its robes fluttered, its hair floated; an illusion. Still, it smiled at him and made him want to kill it no less than the real thing.

"Took you long enough," came the whisper of the mage. Its voice was gaudy with glee, gaunt with anticipation. "I feared you'd gotten lost after your little stunt."

The Crusher of Nations continued to hum his tune, a soft haunting thing that was nostalgic of what mothers had told their daughters many years ago when death was assured the moment they were old enough. Therefore, the hymn was sad, solemn. It was resigned.

Jaskier wondered if this was a mental break. Queried if people still had those. Questioned if he was not too old for such trifles.

Oh, how everyone would be pleased at the state of him. A few hours without them and he spirals quicker than Alice falling down her rabbit hole - her cavernous, pitch black _dangerous_ rabbit hole.

If Stregobor's castle was his rabbit hole, it was certainly not what he'd expected.

~~_Dimly, dully, bleakly he wondered how he'd made it this long._ ~~

He was resigned.

"Not in the mood for conversing?" It taunted, goaded, mocked.

Ivar stood at the end of the corridor he'd been walking down for what was years. The white-grey hair and the thin moustache became a light that guided him.

Jaskier walked quicker. The corridor grew longer.

Quenisve shook. Around the edges of his eyes, the shadows grew, reaching for him.

"Very well," laughed, chuckled, snickered the mage. Jaskier did not like its tone. "Let the games begin."

Monsters fell from the walls.

Stregobor watched the creature slay his illusion shadows. The grace they moved with was undeniable and the wretched look in their eyes made the mage believe his goal had been reached.

Jaskier was no man, no matter how much he likened himself to one. He was a creature that Stregobor had had his eyes on for years, even long before Renfri. Killing the girl and knowing she was his had merely made that expedition much more amusing. The Vipers' Grandmaster was a monster of magic and potions - a monster Stregobor _wanted._

He'd already gotten his hands on a few witchers and he required more. None of his procured bunch were quite so interesting as the one storming through his castle right this moment.

Presently, the one he yearned to clutch in his hands spun through the corridors, feet pattering along the crumbling stones as a blade ricocheted through the air, cutting illusion to mist easily. Stregobor was safe in his main room, the parlour above his prized basement and thus he could afford to linger and watch the fighting through his glass globe. His toys were safe downstairs and his newest one was enjoying himself in the corridors.

Enraptured, he sipped at his tea, robes billowing around him the way he liked. He deeply enjoyed the way the witcher fought, finding himself pleased at how he'd procured another blade so quickly. The Vipers' fangs were odd things, so he'd learned, and the blade only responded to its true master, making sharing difficult. Although he wouldn't be surprised if the bald's blades responded to the man as pre-set or something. Letho was the type to be disgustingly loyal to those he saw fit.

Simply watching the Viper dance along, tearing shadows to shreds, was enough to get him excited. Stregobor set his tea off to the side on his small side table and spared a hand to palm himself. Just thinking about how Jaskier would be _his_ was sublime.

He'd never felt like this before, not for a man or woman or anything else. It seemed the Grandmaster - a beast that could keep up with his power - was the only thing worthy.

Breaths coming in quicker pants, he shuffled the glass globe away from where it hovered a metre away, letting his magic reach out and pin a view of his witcher charging towards a shadow he'd made to look like Letho of Gulet. The sweat rolling down the creature, the tight purse to his lips, the twitch to his jaw - all of it would soon belong to Stregobor. Just as the creature would.

 _Magnificent,_ he thought and spared a hand for the ties of his breeches. The rope fell away under his tugs, trousers parting for him to pull at his smalls. He was hard, straining against the fabric and _oh_ how he couldn't wait to see his newest toy, watch him writhe under him—

Stregobor sucked in a breath he'd been neglecting, easing his cock free of his smalls. His hand ran down the length of himself, a smaller part of his mind weary of how his boy was still running amok. _Ah, might as well let him run off the extra energy._

A tired toy was much more fun to play with. None of his other witchers were amusing anymore, he felt not the urge to stroke them as he wanted to with Jaskier, and he never had. Jaskier would be spectacular, ready and luscious, bound by the dimeritium chains that stood in every cell.

The cell he'd put the baby Vipers in had been fake, all part of an elaborate plan to lure his newest toy here. And he'd fallen for it, Jaskier was here, was going to be his.

How brilliant the Grandmaster would look, speared on his—

A blade pressed against his neck. "Fucking vile," was the accompanied hiss, a true Viper through and through.

Stregobor, not embarrassed in the slightest at having been caught with his masterpiece out, dared to tilt his head to look up at his toy, hand tight around his cock. He was rewarded well: Jaskier's eyes were sharp, his pupils pin-pricks against the suave amber that rivalled a dashing auburn in the shade of his lounge. His jaw was tense, teeth assuredly pressed together hard enough to break judging from the bulging vein on the side of his neck.

It was the hair that got him - the way it seemed to fluff around him the way a snowstorm does a mountain. The candlelight glimmered off his dark locks, trimmed short specially for him. A dark satisfaction welled up inside the mage's chest, pressing him to buck up into his hand. The blade at his neck was a favourable amusement.

Jaskier's eyebrow twitched. His new blade dug deep enough to draw the faintest trickle of blood. "Stop that," he demanded, steadfastly not looking at Stregobor's lower half, having angled himself just so.

The mage didn't stop, simply smirked at him as he watched the Viper's eyes be drawn by the lick of blood rushing down past his collar. Stregobor took great pleasure in seeing his toy's pupils expand at the sight, even if his nose scrunched immediately after.

Would his nose scrunch like that when he took Stregobor in his mouth? He couldn't wait to find out.

"I'm so glad you made it," he gushed, stroking himself faster despite how dry he was. Chafing was the least of his concerns and currently, it felt _good._ "I don't know what I would've done had you actually died in that dusty old tomb."

The curl of his magic in the room tightened, a dark pulsing tendril rising from the floor. Stregobor watched his new toy's eyes as he pressed his foot into the floor, pouring more magic into it. The tendril pierced Jaskier's soft neck just as the medallion began to vibrate.

His Viper growled, teeth parting only to gnash together again as he swayed on the spot, Stregobor's magic pushing through his neck before redacting perfectly. Those beautiful eyes flushed a luminescent purple, much like that darling Yennefer's.

The fang that hovered by his neck was moved away. It fell to the floor with a sharp clatter, the boy's fingers limp as his arm fell to his side.

"Good boy," he crowed, gesturing his toy around his armchair. Jaskier came, his own magic fluttering weakly against Stregobor's own. Silly boy had rushed right in, uncaring if his magic hadn't yet returned in full force. A thought struck him; one that he could now make a pleasure. "Take your shirt off, I want to see your wound."

The garment was gingerly lifted at the hem, Jaskier's fingers shaking as he pulled it up. He was trying to fight the magic but so long as his eyes were purple he wasn't the one in control. Stregobor pumped harder, precum smeared down his breadth.

Toned muscle made itself known, scars running the entire span of his toy's torso. When the shirt was gone the ragged stitching under his heart was made clear, the horrendous gash only barely half-healed. He cooed deep in his throat, a primal reaction as his toy quivered, lips parting so the body could breath satisfactorily.

His new toy was _very_ pretty. The redness of the stab wound only made him prettier.

"Come here," he commanded, voice heavy with Chaos. "Straddle my lap."

The tense stride it took for Jaskier to come forward made it clear his right leg was weakening. Stregobor helped the stifled action by using his free right hand to cup the boy's hip bone - doing so over his trousers wasn't nearly as fun but the leather sure helped - and tugged him along. Jaskier's right knee buckled as he fell onto Stregobor with a squeak.

Panting at the sound, the mage pushed his toy upright, resting Jaskier on his thighs as Stregobor pumped himself faster. He was close, felt his stomach tightening.

"Touch me," he ordered, cumming when both Jaskier's callused hands pressed against his cock. His toy's abs were painted white as the boy's breathing stuttered, his purple eyes flickering to yellow for all of a second.

Reveling in his high, Stregobor let go of his magic-related floodgates and buried the Grandmaster in magic. His toy's eyes flushed purple once again and the shaking stopped.

"Wasn't that nice?" He laughed when his voice returned. Everything felt lighter; he was rejuvenated - maybe could even go for another round if he perked up quick enough. He spared a finger to swathe the boy's cheek, feeling his jaw give way under a suitable amount of pressure. With Jaskier's mouth hanging open he pushed his finger inside. "Suck."

With the heavy hold of magic weighing down the air itself, Jaskier stood no chance of disobedience. He was at Stregobor's whims and the mage intended to make good use of it. The hot, wet heat around his index finger said he was making _very good_ use of his toy.

He was pleased. Very pleased.

Stregobor pulled his finger away, marvelling at the string of saliva that connected the appendage to his toy's mouth still. Straddled over his legs, nearly far enough back to be sitting on his knees, Jaskier sat, purple eyes now glassy. The red of his ears was ever so appealing.

"You're a good boy, aren't you?" He husked, guiding the other's hands downwards, curling his long callused fingers around his cock. Jaskier made a low noise in the back of his throat, half pained, half pleading. Stregobor liked to think he was excited; was in fact, sure of this.

For why else would he be breathing so quickly, chest quaking as his body rushed through the motions that accompanied breathing and thus fuelled respiration. Jaskier was excited - that was the only explanation he would accept.

Grandmasters didn't fear. Ivar Evil-Eye said so.

"Go on," he cooed, wrinkling fingers aiding the softer, younger ones in their task. "Stroke me."

Sensitive from the orgasm that had left him wanting more, he thought about summoning some liquid to aid the process along before realising he had a willing toy right in front of him. His toy's hands weren't enough, as divine as they felt, and the straight backed perch the boy held wasn't what Stregobor wanted right this moment.

"Stand up," he ordered, tone snappish. He needn't have bothered; Jaskier flung himself to his feet as if burned, red hands falling to his sides. Stregobor eyed the red rashes trailing along the boy's skin and supposed there were more on his legs - holding the position must have been uncomfortable. "On your knees." At the last second, he remembered his toy's bad knee. " _Gently_."

Jaskier stood there for a second, allowing Stregobor to eye the semen dripping down his stomach, before his toy's right hand came to rest on his robed knee and used him to lower himself slowly into a kneel. When finished those purple eyes flicked back up to him, now dark and shaded. His jawline looked sharper from Stregobor's vantage point and his cock perked up the whole way.

"So beautiful," he breathed, running a hand through that sinfully fluffy hair. It cut short was a good look on him. His fingers gripped the boy's nape and tugged him forward, opening his thighs out in greeting. "Suck me off."

Jaskier's exhaled breath gushed over Stregobor, urging a shiver along his spine as that warm mouth hovered over him. Purple eyes blinked up at him once before falling down to their target, his toy's hand curling around his base to steady him before his tongue lapped out at his head. Stregobor groaned, fisting his hand in his hair as Jaskier's head dipped and the head of his cock disappeared into the swelling heat of his lips.

 _Beautiful._ He was transfixed, stunned almost, as his toy's head kept going down until he was able to remove his hand. Now with his entire cock down Jaskier's throat, Stregobor had a bit of an effigy.

He allowed the magic pushing down on his toy to lift ever so slightly, readying to thrust up into the cavern of wetness even as his toy stiffened comically. Stregobor laughed, the sensation of the Grandmaster choking on his cock unexplainable.

"Like that, do you?" He sneered, pulling out by an inch to buck into the boy's throat. Eyes now his usual stunning amber, Jaskier glared up at him, the magic travelling to other parts of his body and locking his limbs in place. Panting, Stregobor stood, nearly spearing his entire length into his toy's throat as he did so.

"Well," he managed to grin. "I'm loving this."

Almost in warning, Jaskier's eyes flickered, rivalling a darker shade than that of the rock troll Stregobor kept in his basement to keep an eye on his other toys. Then, sharp teeth grazed him on his inwards thrust.

Jaskier pushed into his pelvic region and _bit down._

Stregobor howled.

"STOP! STOP!" Screamed the mage until he went hoarse, muscles spasming as his hand tugged at the too short hair around Jaskier's nape. His legs went out from under him, leaving him sprawled in the chair. Blood spilled down his legs, staining robes and cushions alike as the Viper witcher rocked before him and spat out his cock - severed at the root.

The man stood from his kneel, spitting so fiercely he could've been a water fountain. Jaskier stared down at the mage, his dark eyes barely visible past the tears lining Stregobor's eyes.

"Bastard," murmured the witcher, voice a mere croak. He spat again, this time gagging. Stregobor watched as the man vomitted, stumbling back from the mess as he grabbed a cushion from the couch opposite to wipe down his stomach. The sneer he gave the fabric could've set it alight and sure enough - not a second later - an Igni burst forth in his palm, devouring the cushion. Stregobor, in some state of shock and searing, radiating pain, could only watch as those amber eyes set onto him.

He'd never seen a more hateful look directed at anyone. Not even the White Wolf had looked so dangerous after he'd slain Renfri. Stregobor had killed thousands, tortured hundreds, and never had he feared one of those people.

Currently, the lone thing he feared stood in his lounge with a look of such vitriol the carpet may just burn. His heart lost its rhythm, his lungs quivered, his liver scrunched tight, his head pounded. The Viper was muttering, cursing him in Elder speech, stood more than a metre away yet still too close.

"How dare you fix your arm," he snarled. Suddenly, magic not his own wrapped around him, sealing off his throat and pushing down on his left arm. Stregobor had not the air to breathe as the bones shattered, fragments of the white marrow thrusting through skin. The magic twisted, vile and angry, and in an instant his arm was no longer recognisable.

The pain was infinite. Had he been able to breathe, he would've choked on his tongue in his screams. As it was, his mouth gaped in a silent gasp.

"How dare you touch my family," and there went his other arm, a pain so great rushing through him that Stregobor wondered if passing out was the greater relief here. Already he found himself regretting everything for what was the fun of it if he hadn't gotten to finish?

As if sensing his thoughts, Jaskier frowned heavily. He tugged the coffee table over from the far side of the room with a single finger flick and sat on it, watching him, unblinking. "Do you know what is happening, coward?" His voice was the loudest thing for miles, the only thing he could hear. The dark, heavy, cruel tone was not missed.

Stregobor had no room to breathe nevermind speak. Seeing this, the magic around his throat unwound the slightest. He sucked in a greedy, singular lungful before the weight returned, Jaskier offering him a saccharine smile as he once again gasped for life.

"Greedy, vile, repulsive, disgusting," began the creature. The sun began setting, casting the room into a shade worse than darkness - an orange that highlighted the monstrous cat-like eyes of the beast and made his sharp canined grin stand out like a colourful shawl. "Capricious, horrifyingly foolish- why Stregobor, you might as well have walked up to hell's gates and begged the devil to end you. I hope Lillit poisons your mind more than I will."

He wanted to speak, wanted to rebuke him so badly but oxygen was not something he was granted. Had he not lived long enough to ensure oxygen? Had he not proven his grit by simply surviving? Stregobor would squish this bug when he got free and stemmed the bleeding of his lower regions. Maybe if he was lucky, some creative magic would reconnect his necessity to where it belonged-

The organ was crushed under a hefty stomp. The sound rung in his ears, echoing even after the action was long done. Jaskier watched him keenly as he stared at the pile of blood and torn skin and shook in dismay and a little bit of something he didn't recognise.

"Good. So you can feel fear, mage." The Viper sneered down at him; a seemingly impossible act made possible despite how the brown haired man sat below his level, head knocked back in a faux show of relaxation. There was an odd glint in his eyes, illuminated by the sun's final passing rays.

"I'll make you beg for life before I'm halfway done."

He didn't beg though nor did he smile as both his legs were crushed. He gagged a laugh as the witcher destroyed his organs one by one, keeping him alive through magic alone and forcing him to watch as he pulled his intestines out of his stomach. The blade seemed more than happy to scritch gouges into his chest, moving up as its master flowed upwards. Eventually he was but a husk; blood spilt everywhere, lungs set upon the table but still racking in breaths that he couldn't feel, everything gone but his head.

"I like your eyes," snickered the creature above him, now inches from his right ear as the blade cut up his left. A long finger swirled up to run around the sweat gathered on his face, pushing his long grey hair out of the way. Jaskier no longer held a resemblance to the human he so desperately wished to appear as and whatever last grasp he held vanished the moment his finger dipped into Stregobor's eye socket to pull out his eye.

Left with one eye and a blade dicing up his tongue even with it inside his mouth, teeth long pulled out, Stregobor looked at the creature marvelling at the eyeball held in its hand and took in the glowing yellow eyes with something akin to a final victory. Assured, he may be the one dying and soon to be dead, but at least he'd kept his sanity until the end. The same couldn't be said for the witcher that stood in the pitch black of the lounge and grinned a grin only monsters knew how to twist their mouths into.

Surviving was never the final victory. Stregobor had won; he took this fact with him to the final thought.

His last glance was to the trapdoor behind the bookcase. He had enough sense in him to be thankful the creature hadn't found the other witchers if he'd reacted like this over a little portalling.


	20. where the fish swim, the fishermen cast their nets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's harder to kill a witcher than most think; mages tend to keep them alive despite the odds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: swearing, imprisonment, unwilling capture and containment, STREGOBOR being an asshole, emotional hurt, past injuries, mentioned/referenced minor character death and torture, 
> 
> If I missed any or there's any spelling/grammar mistakes in this or any other chapters please tell me <3
> 
> PS, this chap is chronologically (but still in the past compared to our current timeline) in order until the last segment, where we jump back a few years

Waves of black crested the land. The Tir mountains were swathed in the wretched colour, choked in it. Ivar surveyed the rock, stood before his Keep in front of the majority of the army despite the fact their mages had already blasted holes into Gvaed's walls and slaughtered the children.

Cornered. Jaskier and he had been pushed into a corner like wounded animals. They were going to die here. Ivar could accept that but Jaskier... his son—

He didn't want the boy to die here too.

Everything was a blur, one huge jumbled segment of colour and pushing Jaskier into the hollow. Somewhere amidst his prayers for the boy to survive, magic curled around him. A man with greying hair and bushy eyebrows sneered down at him. Then the world had caved in on itself and Gorthur Gvaed had burned.

When he woke it was to a troll sitting in a hallway, only half visible thanks to the crooked doorway leading into the aisle of cells and the gloom of the dark. His wounds ached, senses dulled and his wrists were cupped in thick, heavy dimeritium shackles. There was very little life, a bowl of water sitting in the barred cell's corner as well as a bucket for his shit. It was reminiscent of a prison, the cells only made up of bars so that metal separated prisoners, with the cool stone to their backs and butts. He'd been alone then, left slumped in the dirty cell upon the grimy, sand flecked stone. The mage that had taken him came down every now and then to gloat, to foam at the mouth over his achievements. His favourite was talking of a little girl, Renfri, and her death but those stories came long after the other cells had filled up.

Twelve cells. He was in one, the troll sat in the large entryway and only recognised the mage ~~_"You didn't mention your name, sparkie." "Oh my, how could I have not? My name is **Stregobor** , Grandmaster." _~~The one time Ivar had chanced reaching out into the hallway the brute of a thing had nearly swiped his arm off. The dimeritium bars and shackles did him no favours in healing from that.

The first witcher other than him came and went within a week - poor kid had odd coloured eyes and apparently that was so much more interesting to Stregobor than Ivar and his ragged scar over the eye that had been a snake's from birth. The villagers had made it clear it wasn't welcome and true enough the scar wasn't getting any smaller. Although, the mage paid him little attention whilst he dragged the kid from cell to a room down at the end of the hallway (said room Ivar had only seen once when the mage wanted to try out his sedation tonics and damn it wasn't pretty).

In the end, the kid was dead and Ivar hadn't been able to make him speak his name past the bone-chilling screams that came every time the kid looked down at his missing legs. ~~And what the fuck did legs have to do with somebody's eyes?~~

The second came and lasted a day. The second after Stregobor had left the hallway after his little introductory talk - filled with a leering grin and that damned chuckle that made Ivar want to rip his throat out - the kid had made a point of snapping his own neck.

Some days, Ivar wished he had the strength to do that too. Not that he didn't _physically_ but _mentally_ a little part of him remained optimistic, that little small circle that had grown optimistic because someone needed to say nice things to keep Jaskier alive-

But if Jaskier was dead what was the point? (He never did take that final step.)

More came and went, never lasting long. At some point Ivar wondered if he was dead too and in fact a ghost or something of the sort because everyone looked at him, maybe even talked if they were brave enough to broker talk with the man glaring in the corner's shadows, but Stregobor, the bastard, never raised any of his experiments against him the way he did the younger witchers he brought in.

There was twelve cells. Not three had been filled at one time, until suddenly they were.

A Manticore witcher took the cell directly in front of his, across the hall - that was so small it could've been a snail's passage. He was mellow and flung words around in nearly every language Ivar knew and then a few more. He was the first to stay longer than what Ivar reckoned was generally a month, give or take. And that was saying something, considering how Stregobor scoffed when the man started talking of Lebioda. His name was Merten.

As time passed, other witchers filled the halls. To Ivar, to whom it felt like years had passed in a blink, it was almost as if he woke up from a nap one day and suddenly the cells were filled with two more bodies than they last had been.

It was a Bear second, from what he could tell. Ivo of Belhaven had a temper, enjoyed laughing at Merten when he began preaching to the cell bars and had a mighty finger spasm that often found him breaching the bars of his cell - coincidentally immediately beside the Manticore witcher's - and trying to strangle the poor fellow. Ivar took it in good grace, even as Merten squawked loud enough to raise the troll from its slumber every once in a while. Thankfully, for all the troll stunk it was twice as dumb and often slumped around the hallway for a few minutes before returning to its corner.

Coming in at what could've been a few days after the Bear witcher was the Crane. Stefan mewled of the loss of his knives and tried to pull off more balancing stunts with the bars of the cell than Ivar had seen the trainees attempt. The main impresser was that the man, with his bulky figure and flexible nature, was able to achieve and uphold these positions. His favourite move had been push-ups whilst doing a handstand until Ivo sneered that the blood would gush out of his head. Stefan had snorted at him but changed the stance anyway, moving on in the future to poses that were mainly done to annoy the grumpy Bear.

When the Cat came Stregobor made a show of dragging him in himself. Maybe it was the snickers of him being weak that fuelled it, but it was noted that the Cat was dragged more along the stone than any of them. The kid had taken a bashing; eye gone to what looked like an arrow, nearly every limb had a gash along it and his guts were threatening to slip past his torn skin. On his first night, he began seizing, body shaking as he screamed. The mage rushed down the steps in a hurry and levitated the kid to the room at the end of the hall faster than Ivar had ever seen him move. He survived, despite how badly his body did not want to and Aiden turned out to have a sharp tongue when the tainted Cat formula wasn't making him shiver like a lamb.

Then came the Griffin - a sturdy woman by the name of Annaliese who wasn't afraid to give it her all when Ivo got snappish with his banter - and Ivar began to wonder if the mage was collecting one from every School.

His theory was proven wrong as a second Cat graced their stead. This time, a woman who'd been Queen. Dragonfly woke with a start and was eager to brighten the atmosphere. Her blonde hair matched Annaliese, if not for the fact the former Queen's was shaved tight to her scalp. She had the wit of a panther and a proclamation for theatrics.

Seven witchers. Ivar decided that either the mage would keep going until he got one from each Witchering School or he'd stop when the cells filled out.

Next came a Wolf. A bulky man that made all of them - even if half starving - look small. He was young, with hair that couldn't be tamed and a worse attitude to rival. He died within the year. Stregobor laughed at his dead body. No more came after that.

"I was gonna go on a pilgrimage," said Merten, one day. He sounded wistful, words barely audible over the troll's earth rattling snores.

"Oh," muttered Aiden. "That would've been fun."

"If you like floppin' about begging the air for words," Ivo snorted.

"I think it's cute," Dragonfly added her crowns' worth.

"Do most Lebioda followers not change their name?" Queried Annaliese. The sound of shuffling had her form swinging around, her hooked foot in the horizontal bars that crisscrossed the vertical bars holding her in her upside down hang. When she'd first done this it had been starling, before Stefan had joined her. "Would you have changed it?"

"Yeah," nodded Merten. In the light of the candles perched in the center of the hallway, he looked distant. "Had one picked out and everything. Shavel."

Stefan wavered from his handstand as he snorted. The two Cats nearly lost their heads in their laughter and then nearly lost everyone's as the troll stomped into the hallway with a low groan. The rock troll grumbled as it dragged itself past the bars, the bucket on its head echoing the low grunting sound as it trailed its club behind itself, the wood slowly splintering on the rough stone. Of all the beings in the cellblock, the troll was the only one not shackled to a post - although there was the shuffle of chains every time it moved its arms too far from its neck.

After the silence had become thick and the troll had stomped its way back to its pile of hay, Aiden spoke up in a whisper: "Why Lebioda?"

Meten shrugged, gazing up at the medallion that Stregobor hung above each of their cells, marking them as caged witchers. "Had an old coot for a cell mate in ol' Bastoy. He was gaga for the whole thing and I guess I liked the idea of someone listening to me."

"How does the pilgrimage go?" Ivar asked, leaning forth onto his knees to begin his daily push-ups. "I've heard there's a cave to go to."

"The Prophet's Cave, yes. You pray there before going to Lebioda's Temple and speaking with the Great Beggar."

"The Great Beggar?" hummed Stefan. "Do you confess to them?"

"More like they beg you to," Ivo snipped, causing a ripple of hushed laughter.

"They do not, Bear," huffed Merten. "You're meant to go and talk with Them before confessing and receiving instruction on how to continue. In your case I'd assume your instruction would be to jump off a cliff."

The surly witcher snorted but was cut off by one of their resident Cats.

"Oi, Aiden, I'm the Great Dragonfly, are you prepared to receive your instructions?" Dragonfly swooned, wriggling a hand through the bars separating the two Cats. She must've ruffled his hair for there was the sound of skin hitting skin - a light slap - before the male Cat cleared his throat.

His tone was three pitches higher than it normally was and he spoke with a dramatic flail that was so audible there wasn't a need for seeing it, even if he did a spectacular job of fanning himself with his hand. "Oh, my Great Dragonfly! I come today to seek guidance, tell me - what ever shall I do after fucking my darling neighbour; a stunning milkmaid who I put up against the wall?"

"Do you confess to your sins?" Came the muffled response. Ivar's night sight wasn't as good as the Cats' but he could clearly see her biting down on her hand when she shifted in the flicker of the candle flames.

"Aye, Great Dragonfly, I confess, I fucked her good," Aiden agreed.

In the cell beside him, Ivar seen Annaliese roll her eyes. She slipped her coarse blonde hair over her shoulder and cowed her back to allow the whisper to travel further. "What did her father have to say about it?"

"He's not too fuckin' pleased," Stefan gurgled, tone pushed deeper than Ivar had reckoned it could go. "He's gave my darlin' syphilis!"

Aiden choked. "Why I never! I'm as clean as a-"

"An alley cat wit' fleas," barked Ivar, keeping his tone low enough to not wake the troll but loud enough that they all knew what it was meant to be. He layered a random accent on thick. "I've seen 'im wit' me own eyes! Scrawny cat, 'e is!"

"There will be no shouted confessions, sir-ee," Dragonfly gawked. "This man has come to confess his sins, let him be!"

"Aye," bucked up Aiden. "Lemme be, y'all squanderin' bunch!"

"Sir-ee!" Echoed the female Cat, putting on a good show of being scandalised. "No shouting in the confession box!"

"What confession box?" Aiden carried along. "All I see is a bit o' wood I coulda fucked the milkmaid over!"

The Cats descended into hissed snickers as Annaliese shook her head. Ivar shared a grin with Ivo as Stefan bounced on his tiptoes and began starjumps past his snorts. "You're all horrible," bemoaned Merten.

"You love us, Shave-a-little-L," jested Dragonfly before nearly howling in her laughter.

The day had been long. Stregobor hadn't come down to blow out the candles which either meant time was being extra long for Ivar or the old bastard was off floundering about somewhere again on what he called 'business trips' (which Ivar suspected was another word for him hunkering down in a city to see who was easy pickings). Their nerves were fraying; Aiden had given in to a claustrophobic screaming fit when Stefan made too much noise in trying to perfect some sort of front flip and Dragonfly's breathing hadn't been straight since. Annaliese was brooding in the far corner, away from Ivar's, and hadn't spoken a word in what had to be going on three hours. Merten had given up on trying to teach them all Skelligan jargon when it became clear no one was really listening and, from what Ivar could tell, Ivo had been napping for an hour. Either that or he was dead.

Ivo grunted, proving his life and cleared his throat with a hack. "'Ey, how come the Griffin School was known as the Eagle?"

In her corner, Annaliese shifted. "Erland wanted us to be called that. We actually started out as Eagles. That was before we truly took over Kovir and dealt with their griffin nests. After that the people began calling us Griffin Slayers and once Slayer became magnanimous with 'witcher' they had given us our name."

"And Erland just rolled over for it?" Ivar snuffed, a breathy mix of a sigh and a frayed chuckle. "I remember him being more stubborn."

"Oh, he tried to fight it," assented the woman. "But when the medallions were cast and people were still calling us Griffins, he gave in."

"To be fair," Stefan wavered closer to the hallway as he peered up at the medallion hanging above the door of the woman's cell. Everyone in their right mind at the moment tensed, afraid the troll would somehow suddenly wake and squish him with one of the gargantuan swings that hurt like a Hellhound had bitten off a limb. The troll had an odd temper, somedays being happy to just stomp past the bars whilst on other days it tried its luck with taking swings at the dimeritium bars. Stregobor had said nothing of this behaviour and thus it continued to happen at risk of splinters flying out and possibly killing one of them. "It does look more like a Griffin."

"It's more of an Eagle," Merten announced. "I don't see how anyone could think it as a Griffin."

"Another thing," Ivo added. "Since when do the chivalrous knights train women?"

"Since witchers went out and collected girls for their Surprise Children," huffed Annaliese. "At least I have manners."

Ivo made a low snorting noise in disregard. "Yeah," cheered Stefen quietly; wary of setting off Aiden again, who was now rocking back and forth. "You tell him, girl!"

"My name is Annaliese," reminded the Griffin, loaded with the tone that a worn-down parent would speak to their children in. Resignation didn't suit her. It sat heavy on her tongue, hindering her polite words and tight poise.

A stunted hush befell them, the slightest whisper of breathing echoing between the small space.

It was a common fable that curiosity would kill the cat, allowing satisfaction to bring it back. At the creation of the Cat Witchering School this idiom became much more common place, growing frantic amongst the murmurs of the children taking on less traditional contracts. Such news stood badly with the other Schools but to the Vipers, who took on infiltration and coercement contracts daily, this news settled quickly. Over the years, they'd formed something of a reputation in the courts; it was wide knowledge amongst the rich who to hire should they want dirt on a political foe or should a certain man toe the line between manners and disfigurement.

Ivar had tried to establish relations - something as simple as a begrudging friendship - with the Cat Grandmaster but it soon became clear the School was torment to inner parties, a possible civil war brewing amidst the walls of Stygga and he'd backed off, unwilling to pull apart the School. Every Grandmaster that remained such for long enough died soon after and thus it became unspoken to not speak of the Cats' leadership as the younger, more frenzied generations took over with their heightened emotions and quicker tongues.

The first man to stay Grandmaster for longer than a year was Oluvar. As far as Ivar knew, he'd still been in the position come 1159. His knowledge was non-existent from there on.

Not long after the final witcher - Dragonfly - appeared, he decided to tackle the horrifying thought of time passing beyond the stone of the wall at his back and leftern side.

"Who's the Cat's Grandmaster nowadays?" He started into the quiet.

The Cats paused in their game of patty-cake and both looked to him, eyes glowing golden. Aiden's had thinned to slits, flickering to Dragonfly's after a moment, whereas the woman herself kept her pupils thick and round.

"There hasn't been one in some time," confessed the female.

Aiden tilted his head. "What happened to Guxart?"

Dragonfly's tone was soft. "Guxart's dead three hundred years, brother."

"Three... hundred?" Stuttered the boy, suddenly leaning forwards. The chain connecting him to the iron bar at the back of his cell rattled as he shifted too quickly. "What? What year is it?"

"1632."

That drew a reaction out of everyone: Merten gasped, Stefan clattered out of his handstand, Ivo swore and Annaliese shifted forwards from her corner. Ivar couldn't breathe.

"I remember it being 1460," said the Griffin.

"1243 for me," Stefan murmured.

"I was somewhere around 1270," frowned Aiden. "'75, maybe?"

Ivo made a noise. "I remember 1230."

"It was 1219 when I was shoved in here," Merten rambled. "And you, Ivar- you were already here!"

All eyes turned to him, the rings of colour focussing on him like an Igni to a vial. The solution inside simmered, heat roiling off it. Ivar swallowed.

"I fell with Gorthur Gvaed," he said. "In her Sacking."

"Her Sacking?" Questioned Annaliese. "Her Sacking never took. Are you talking about the one that spawned the War?"

"War?" He pursued, confused. The silence became heavy.

"The current Grandmaster Viper waged war on Nilfgaard after the Sacking of 1159," Dragonfly explained. "That war lasted a few years but it resulted in the Usurper dead."

"I heard the reasoning for it was because his father was killed in the initial attack," cooed Aiden, leaning towards him now. His eyes glittered, highlighting their odd greenish-golden hue. "You know who he was?"

Ivar racked his brains, heart aching at the memories of his boys. They'd fought a war? And won? There was only one man alive after the Sacking that he knew of for sure.

"Did Letho wage it?" He asked. "The boy was close to Jaskier." It made sense; Jas was the first person aside from Ivar to talk to Letho civilly, the first to form a true bond of friendship. They'd gotten along very well.

"Holy shit," whispered Stefan.

Dragonfly's smooth cadence broke over Ivo's returning agreement. "Jaskier - the Bloodied Snake, the Crusher of Nations, the Painter of Fields - fought the war. He fought the war for you, Ivar Evil-Eye."

He froze.

"You were a Grandmaster?" Squeaked Merten. "By Melitele's right tit!"

"Damn," whistled Aiden quietly. "Imagine having a son who'd take a nation to war over your death. Must've liked you."

Memories of climbing the hollow, picking buttercups along the forest tracks, hiking up the Tir in the flush summer months invaded his mind; all with Jaskier in them, little Jaskier who'd once been Julian before going off on the Path and returning scarred, changed, different. He closed his eyes and saw the bones of his ribs past the boy's undershirt, saw his own hands pushing stew towards him with the excuse of ridding the boy of his chill, saw the man he called son pale and drawn out, bags under his eyes from pulling himself half-way across the Continent with a hole in his torso and a crushed leg after those bastard soldiers attacked him. Jaskier's smile, the one that urged him to push through this hell even if no one knew to come save them, Jaskier's laugh, that low breathy chuckle of joy that lit up his world, Jaskier's bright blue eyes from before that hellish Trial that had left the other boys blown out over the hay and stone.

Ivar swiped away the tears and hoped his voice was steady when he spoke, "He's alive?"

"Yep," confirmed the former Queen, the very one who'd been 'assassinated'. "Alive and parading about with a whole nest of Vipers."

"Heard Letho of Gulet killed Demavend III, King of Aedrin, not too long ago," added Annaliese.

"That was a while ago," but Dragonfly agreed. "The Kingdom is doing exceptionally well, although it's my belief that the Childlike Empress will be digging her claws in soon."

The former Grandmaster of the Vipers sunk back into the far corner of his cell and revelled in the knowledge his son and his School were alive. He was just glad it was him here and not his son.


	21. where do all the monsters hide when they walk in the daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jaskier's in a castle in the middle of nowhere with a head that won't think right and a blade that's been missing for centuries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: went deep w/this one: suicidal thoughts, possible depression, self-depreciating thoughts, loss of self-esteem and thoughts correlating to such, swearing, implied/referenced rape, blood and injury, violence, non-consensual imprisonment and capture, implied torture, implied disassociation, emetophobia warnings - vomiting, etc.

His legs wouldn't support him anymore and he collapsed into the pool of Stregobor's blood. Even dead the man reeked. The very sight of him brought anger to Jaskier and sent his blood alight. Except now, the simplest thought of the bastard made his stomach jump and buck in discomfort and the slightest whiff of that _ivory, dry, bourbon_ scent made his heart hammer in his chest and his anxiety skyrocket. Slumped in the middle of the room, his head wouldn't stop spinning, his ears wouldn't stop ringing. His grasp on his magic was fluctuating. Quenisve fluttered around him - almost unsure, if she were sentient.

Throat constricting, stomach heavy despite its emptiness, he coughed up bile. The acid sat atop the blood that coated the floor, the room, the walls, his hands. Jaskier glanced up to his fang when she chirped with worry but caught a glimpse of the corpse lay strewn over the once-beige armchair and gagged again. Quenisve plucked at his wet trousers, blade cleaned of blood but not shining like she should be. He looked down, kept his straying eyes locked on her and realised he was covered in the mage's blood; skin-deep because his shirt was still slumped on the floor from-

More bile joined the cesspit that was the floor. The scream that left him was loud with anger, filled with the emotion he could barely feel past the suffocating fear. He needed to get out of this room, needed to leave behind the charred remains of the cushion on the floor and the blood splattered atlases in the corner-aligned bookshelves. He needed to see what had been important enough for... _it_ to look at before death.

The taste of bitterness wouldn't leave his mouth, somehow amplified by the burn of stomach acid. His throat was on fire, everything shimmered around the edges ~~ _and there was too much blood._~~

Suddenly, he realised he was crying. Hiccupping little sobs that grated on his oversensitive ears and made his thoughts sound shrill. Tears drooled down his cheeks, painting cooling lines of water as they dried in the cloudy, night-time Zerrikanian heat. The blood felt stiff on his skin, the red rashes of his earlier burns indecipherable from _its_ blood. _Its_ blood was _everywhere_. His trousers were soaked through, his shirt was buried under the ash of burnt organs - _don't think about it, stop it, shut up, don't go there_

He gasped until his throat was hoarse and then it burned worse. Jaskier held his breath until the cries stopped, until the tears ceased and then he just felt out of sync. His Chaos was swirling around him, lapping against his skin like the cool puddles of water he'd found in the hollow after the Sacking. Those puddles had saved him, stopped him from dying, kept dehydration at bay.

 _In the puddles again,_ he thought, throat scratching on a burbling tune, hands scrabbling through the dark ~~_blood_~~ water as he fought with his limbs to stand. His leg wasn't broken, just hurt, there wasn't a spear in his shoulder, there was a stitched wound under his heart that made breathing hard and sent sharp strikes of pain along his spine if he twisted too much. No Nilfgaard, no enemies, they were dead, _dead, **dead, ~~dead~~**_

Just a wall that looked innocent. A portrait of something too blurry to make out, all vibrant colours as much as it was dark and gloomy. Pretty, it was pretty. Maybe would've been beautiful in another life.

Jaskier wondered what true beauty was.

A sharp glint of life flickered into his vision, a beautiful swathe of silver accompanied by a rough looking dark smudge. Whatever it was filled his chest back up again, made his leg hurt a little less. This was beauty, true real good beauty that made him feel something and made him want to live. And wasn't that a surprising realisation.

Quenisve spun her blade and whacked the side of his head with the flat of her. Jaskier snapped back to the real world and spat the saliva out of his mouth and braced himself on the coffee table. _Coffee tables,_ he mused as he rocked onto his feet, feeling the weakness bloom to a dull thud in his right knee. There and then, he decided he didn't much like coffee tables because _it_ had them and thus they were useless just like _it_ had been. When he revamped Twenty-Eight he'd make sure to not have any coffee tables. Geralt wouldn't understand but he wouldn't ask either and that was all Jaskier needed.

The far wall looked no different than the other walls. Bookshelf in the corner, a portrait of brushstrokes in all colours hung beside it. An empty fireplace sat, desolate. It was free of wood, a simple metal cradle suggesting the ma- _it_ had used magic to light it. Around him, the castle shuddered, the roar of winds outside not from the sandstorm that had long passed but from the wards shuddering. It seemed with the monster dead the wards were failing. A shame.

He didn't have long, then. If he was right and they truly were in Zerrikania then her tribes could come upon the large stone castle any moment now. Jaskier wasn't in the mood to fight off zealous cults or dragon-worshippers. Didn't think he'd be able to.

On his feet, the world was blurry. The books on the shelves no longer had discernible names, just scribbles and blobs of colour.

 _Get a grip,_ he thought, annoyed at himself and his inability. This was all his fault; he was too damn weak to take action, couldn't hold back his emotions for a second to get a clean kill before _it_ had turned around- no, he'd _had_ to talk to it and now he was fucked up and more broken than before. Geralt wouldn't love him anymore, would take one look at him and turn away because who wouldn't? Jaskier was weak, useless like he always had been. It was Julian all over again.

 _Should've died on the Path,_ he knew. One too many times he'd taken a spear or a blade or a pitchfork's prongs through flesh and muscle and yet unlike so many others who'd died quickly to these things he'd survived. Was this destiny wanting to curse him as well? Was this her work, her meddling to ensure his torturous life was drawn out and out and out?

Nausea swamped him, made his stomach cramp like a Harpy had landed on him and dug her claws in. He stood there - a weak, broken man - and struggled to regulate his breathing, attempting to push down the sharp tang of panic that threatened to overwhelm him in enemy territory. What a bad witcher he was, a stupid fucking idiot who couldn't even breathe properly, a child who could barely keep his head when he needed it most. Most depreciating of all; he hadn't been a child for hundreds of years.

Jaskier wanted everything to stop. Wanted to curl up in his father's arms but his father was dead over nine hundred years and he shouldn't be this weak. He was a grown-ass man, he shouldn't be dreaming of sitting down, he should be envisioning storming through monsters' lairs, razing hell upon those who dared look at his family wrong but here he was, dizzy and weak and so fucking tired. It was the past week all over again, the time before the ball and then after crammed into one long deathly bone-chilling nightmare that made his bones itch and his arms prickle. The only difference was that this time Geralt would leave him, take all his pretty, helpful, nice friends with him and Jaskier would be left alone because surely his kin didn't want anything to do with him now that he'd ruined everything and brought a monster worse than the devil upon them.

He could see it clearly: Letho would level him with that ice-cold look that felt worse than getting caught in the after-breeze of a northern wind bomb before turning away and never looking back; Gerring would look at him with those angry, sharp eyes and scoff in dismissal whenever he tried to get a word in; Ragnar's frown burnt down metaphorically extended olive branches and his snorted breaths caused bridges (metaphorical for friendships) to crumble underboot; the younger boys would look at him with that venom in their eyes, the same venom they'd gathered after Jaskier had stumbled back to them and declared Gorthur Gvaed's demise. Kolgrim would laugh with that brittle edge and Ilester would join him; Auckes would watch him with those snide eyes, pulling him apart at the seams and pricking at his faults. Jaskier doesn't know what Ivar would've done were he here. Maybe he'd have taken pity and rammed Elsiben through his heart - that is, he would have if Jaskier hadn't been a dumb fuck and gotten the priceless blade broken in a cave facing off against a higher vampire.

Why couldn't he just die? How could he not do _anything_ right? His kin _~~would~~ _hate him; ~~_probably already did._~~ He was useless, a waste of space that wasn't even any good at what he was meant to be.

He was the protector. The Grandmaster of the Vipers. The witcher in possession of that title was meant to look after their kin, watch out for their witchers and _he couldn't even stop_ a bastard mage from _touching_ him

 _Weak, weak, weak,_ he chanted, bloodied hands clutching what was left of his hair after he'd cut it.

A low groan rung out. Jaskier stilled, all too aware that he had not created the noise. Had the cults caught up to him already? Good, they would kill him, save him from dirtying Quenisve's blade with his rotten blood.

The silence was deafening, broken only by his heartbeat. It was calming, would be back to a normal witcher's blood clotting pulse in a few moments-

 _Useless,_ became his inner monologue. _Stupid, weak, irrelevant._

Another groan reverberated through the stone, this one less of a moan and more of a roar. His heart reclaimed its previous panicked thumping as his fingers twitched amongst the caked bloo- ~~_water_ , it was water.~~ on the floor. (When had he sat down again? How pathetic, he couldn't even remain standing.) He recognised that sound and that very fact made his stomach drop.

Trolls didn't live out in the desert. Trolls didn't sit in stone castles amidst the flurries of sandstorms and drink tea. Trolls hunkered down, built bridges with tolls to pay and flung stones (or in unlucky cases, ice) at their long-distance opponents. In his disastrous state, Jaskier wouldn't be fit to dodge the first stone. A gust of particularly strong wind may even knock him over.

Quenisve dropped into his wet hands, a reassuring weight against the shroud of despair. He looked down to her, found his vision clearer than it had been a while ago, and decided the troll was important. Mages didn't just keep trolls stashed in rooms in the middle of the desert unless they were friends or were contracting them. Jaskier didn't think _it_ made a point of making friends.

Plus, trolls were somewhat sentient. They were capable of speech, broken Common and negotiating. Ivar's words rung in his head in the absence of ordered thought, _"Trolls are like humans; fickle and prone to violence if hungry."_

Oh, how he hoped it wasn't hungry.

In his crusted hand, his blade whirred. A third groan echoed along the cold walls of the castle, the sound easily pinpointable to below him. Jaskier took a deep breath, collecting what he could of himself, burning what was left of the monster with a harried Igni. Paranoia was an old friend, nagging at him that he was leaving evidence behind - in the form of his soaked shirt - whilst a more logical part of his brain wondered if anyone would even find the castle before it was dust. He burnt the shirt anyway, bleakly wondering if he could burn -blood- water, at seeing his hands, and just his about entire body, covered in it.

Disregarding that, he turned to the wall the monster had given a final look. Probably would've smirked, had its tongue not been dice meat under Quenisve's sharp administration. On one hand, the wall looked completely normal but on the other, _~~significantly more bloodied one~~_ the mage wasn't one for wasting its time with silly little glances. Not like Jaskier - stupid, foolish Jaskier who couldn't even kill a beast without spiralling.

Jaskier pulled himself to his feet, frowning when he felt his socks squelch even past his supposedly water-proofed boots. His first step was that of a lamb's first so instead of going straight to the wall to inspect it, he walked a circle around the room to regain some level of steadiness before finally stopping in front of the painting.

Calling his magic forth (not that it had far to go, always lurking, always wallowing just under his skin), he found himself slightly annoyed when neither the painting or the furnace reacted to his probing. The bookshelf, though, positively _buzzed_.

Chaos curled around the sanded wood, shifting through meaningless atlases from years ago. Jaskier recognised some to be over six hundred years old, meaning the monster had been in residence for some time. That, or he'd liberated the castle from someone who had. Whatever. In the end it didn't matter, without the wards the place may as well be a bucket filled with sand. And a troll.

It was likely a rock troll, seeing as ice ones mostly lived up in the permafrost and one would most likely be dead if residing out here - magic or not. Trolls weren't easy to take down, far from it. If things got violent all he had to rely on was Quen, thanks to his lack of ogroid oil. Quenisve had always had a vial of what he needed, holding little stores that he could multiply with Chaos that ensured they were never down on a surprise fight. Quenisve had been his best fang, from everything from her level of imbibing to how the leather wrap around her handle hid the secret compartment that housed countless small vials, each container barely bigger than his tiniest fingernail. Chaos had played a large part in it, to the point where naming an oil resulted in the vials silently shifting inside the handle to allow the blade to be coated in-

 _Idiot_. He had Quenisve back from where-ever she'd vanished for the couple hundred years and Quenisve had those vials inside of her. A sudden spark of excitement trilled through him, quickly squashed by the grime layering the books his hands rifled through.

"Quenisve," he spoke, surprised to find his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper. No matter how hard he tried, from a light trill to a loud cough, he couldn't shake the dip in volume levels. His throat felt full and he remembered the strangulation from earlier before dismissing it. His healing rate would've dealt with the bruises the moment they arrived, and the factor was most certainly working, shown by how the gaping wound in his chest was now thinning out to be a particularly garish scar.

Jaskier dismissed his stupid, meaningless, time-wasting worries and spoke, "Ogroid oil."

Obediently, the blade gave a soft whirring sound. Then, her metal - steel inlaced with silver so pure it would kill any fae who touched it - was stained from a substance drooling out from what seemed to be the sealed line of her handle. She flushed a glossy red a moment later, pace more leisurely than he remembered - probably because they were in no hurry. With her task done, she have a celebratory chirp and took up a hover beside his right hand for a quick grab.

Like in every cliché movie - such things that his boys enjoyed watching when they came home for winter - he thumbed each book, pulling and twisting in a belated attempt to activate the dormant magic writhing behind the wood. Unfortunately, no such response came from tugging at aged books. Instead, in his ire, the third-most middle shelf buckled and broke in half under his misplaced hand.

Stumbling only to catch himself as his right knee clicked ominously, he righted himself and frowned at the bookshelf. Nothing had changed except for a considerable amount of dust joining the air, doing its best to dampen the hellish scent the room was bathed in. He inhaled too quickly and was forced to muffle a squeaking sneeze because of it.

With his fang chirping at his side whilst making a charging motion, he brushed off the renewed ache in his throat and pushed into his magic reserves. He was running low, not really having let himself recover from the earlier exhaustion, as well as the amount he'd expelled at Kaer Morhen.

 _Fool,_ he chastised himself. _Should've known something like this would happen._

He wouldn't be caught off guard again. Over his dead body, he swore.

At the rate he was going at, he'd be dead very soon. But there would be no loss there.

Too slowly, his Chaos rose, building in his hand as it waited for him to form a Sign. An Aard shattered the bookcase, revealing a neat pentacle scratched into the stone wall. With shaking fingers, he grazed it and tried not to gape as an entire segment of stone seemed to disappear, revealing a narrow spiralling staircase leading into pitch black.

Stepping into it, the stone replaced itself, although a cursory hand pushed back through disturbed the illusion and revealed the destroyed room once again. Heart thumping in his chest, Jaskier took a deep breath through his mouth and nearly hurled as the disgusting bitterness came back in full force, coiling down his scratched throat and staying there. Standing at the top of a spiral staircase with a lone stone pillar for support was maybe not the smartest thing to do if a troll was free-roaming, so he began his journey down, trying not to wince every time his knee clicked softly. Around him, everything was dark, the stone in the far wall on the other side of the squarish room barely visible. Glancing down brought him nothing but moving shadows.

Later, he blamed it on his terrible night-sight, but in the present, he stepped off the last spiral step and stilled, horror stopping him before he even breathed. Not six foot away from him, dozing in the corner of the tiny room, was the troll. It was assuredly a rock troll, with a back like an overhanging cliff face, jagged stones jutting up to protect its shoulders, neck and the back of its small head. The thing was snoring lowly, head jammed inside one of those old leather pails, two ragged tears for eye holes. Its mouth was clear of the pail, showcasing an unholy amount of drool leaking down its stout stomach, skin obviously leathery and thick as its hand shifted to scratch along its short leg, creating an eerie scritching noise. Trolls had arms much longer and larger than their legs and this one lived up to that expectation, its palms alone being large enough to grab Jaskier's head like a grape and crush his brains. Beside the slumbering figure sat a splintered, half-there tree branch, evidently of some age from the rot and sheer state of the weapon (well, he guessed it was being used as a bat or a club of some sort).

Jaskier let his eyes flicker, noting a door to the left and what appeared to be a hallway to his right. He scented the air, practically capable of seeing the bl- blo- _blood_ in the air leading to the room. Not knowing for sure what was behind it, and not wanting to, he edged slowly around the troll, analysing correctly that he wouldn't be able to down the troll in one blow without it crushing him in close-quarters, asleep or not. This in the forefront of his mind, he followed an oddly familiar scent that was too obscure for him to truly name.

The hallway was dark and he almost stumbled into a candlestick before really stepping into it. Off balance, he wriggled mid-air and miraculously settled on his feet. His right leg clicked loudly at the abuse and rebound of the landing, making him freeze. In the room not a few feet away, the troll snuffled but didn't wake. He swallowed, throat complaining at the state of itself and took a deep sniff.

His shoulders sprung tight, Quenisve firm in his hand from the second he'd seen the troll. _That smell-_

He turned, feeling his world waver as medallions wavered before him, hanging from hooks, suspended over cell doors. The stench of dimeritium was thick, nearly all encompassing but nothing could block out the undeniable scent.

A lunging Viper emblem stared down at him, a jewelled eye scored out just like its owner's had been. His breath caught in his throat as he remembered, horrified, an exact replica nestled in a drawer in his room at Gorthur Gvaed. How? He'd burned the man's body- taken the medallion off it- he'd _had_ it, Jaskier swore it was in his possession. Why was it here, how was it here?

"You gonna stand there all day?" Snarled a dry voice from behind. Jaskier whirled on instinct, immediately scenting and picking up eight scents in total. One was the troll's thick agglomeration of stone and musk while the other seven were undeniably the whiskey-cold lilt of witchers. There was no one standing directly behind him, as he had feared, but instead a pair of eyes stared up at him, lowered as if the owner was on the floor.

A witcher. The overhanging medallion was that of a Bear.

His stomach jumped. Jaskier hissed, spinning on his left heel (because his right leg was no longer to be trusted in the strength department) and looked back at the Viper. Beside it was a blood splattered Griffin. The man looked down and found three eyes staring at him.

"Ivar?" He croaked. One eye fluttered, shifting forth. Jaskier rocked back, foot finding another candle that was too deep into the hallway for the troll to see. A weak Igni had it lit, showing him a weary face that he thought for sure he'd burned. Had burned because it was dead, body cold and without pulse, lungs long having stopped working.

"Jaskier," but it was his father's voice, gushing with relief and possibly fear. It had been so long - nine hundred years he'd mourned him, yet here he was. Jaskier had found his body, speared through, nearly unrecognisable but it had been his armour, had smelt like him, had been Ivar Evil-Eye by all accounts.

There was too many cells. Dimeritium bars crisscrossing methodically. The hallway stunk of fear, piss and troll. Underneath it was a scent a doppler could never hope to recreate - witcher, most assuredly. Ivar, something that reminded Jaskier of Lambert and- there was seven witchers down here and he hadn't even known.

"Hand," he demanded, fingers stretching out. There was the clatter of chains, all too loud in Jaskier's ears, before familiar warm fingers pushed into his palm. Quenisve shook in his other hand, the ogroid oil receding through her magic as the blade came up to lie flat against the older man's skin. There was no reaction. Jaskier watched those yellow-blue eyes for the slightest sign and found nothing, only recognition and a burning lump of hope that made his face seem fuller than it was.

"We're all real," his father assured. "Everyone: push a hand out."

"And let him cut our fingers off?" Came the whispered growl, but all seven hands pushed through the thick bars. Jaskier lingered where he was for a moment before going around all of them - the hall couldn't have been bigger than a metre, Melitele knew how the troll stomped about it (if it even did). None reacted to show they were a doppelgänger.

"Is that your blood?" Asked a female voice. A Cat medallion hung over her cell, one of two.

"No," he managed to say. His throat wouldn't let anything else out so he left it at that.

With the doppler checks done, Quenisve shook and let herself flush with ogroid oil once more.

"We're in shackles," came Ivar's voice. Jaskier turned his eyes to the hall's entrance to watch for the troll in case it was smarter than it let on. "There's no key and no hole for one, so we'll have to Aard them off. The cells have a sole key for all, hanging around the troll's neck."

"You'll have to kill it," said another voice.

"Surprised it didn't wake when you entered - you're so loud." Joined another.

Jaskier stood there, weighing his outcomes. "Axii?" He questioned aloud, unable to speak more than one word.

There was a momentary silence before another female voice spoke up. "With all respect, Grandmaster Viper, I do not believe you could sustain an Axii for the period of time required."

"Yeah," said a fourth male. "You kinda look like shit."

"Stefan," came a low hiss.

"No offense," repeated the voice, apparently Stefan.

Jaskier looked down at himself, bloodstained clothing, red chest, red hands, probably a red face, and shrugged. He glanced around, confirming there was seven witchers before anything else happened.

"Alive?" He hissed, looking to the one eye of Ivar's as he gestured to the cells. There was a moment of silence where he could practically taste the confusion.

"Everyone is," Ivar confirmed finally, after a stunted hush.

"You never said he didn't talk in more than monosyllabic grunts, Ivar," jested someone.

The regal female's voice from before jutted in, "He's not monosyllabic. 'Alive' has two syllables. As does 'Axii'."

"Alright, shut up, Annaliese." Sighed the Bear. "We all knew Merten was fucking dumb anyways."

"Hey!" Started this alleged Merten. Up at the opening of the hall, a low shift echoed - barely audible for even Jaskier. The witchers sounded ready to continue so he held his hand up, sinking low in a defensive crouch.

They fell into an uneasy hush as he watched the room beyond, squinting to see what he could in the dark room. He'd have to portal them out, going back upstairs was a big no-no and even if they were all alive he couldn't be sure of injuries. Even if the only blood in the room was what was on him, he couldn't be sure.

Up ahead, the troll groaned, a low rumble echoing through the crumbling stone floor. With a groan that's echo left Jaskier feeling ill, the troll appeared in the doorway. It wasted no time once it immediately spotted him, branch clutched tighly as it roared, charging.

Curses echoed around him from the celled witchers as he slunk low, mapping out a plan before going head-first. He ducked under the swinging bat, feeling it splinter further behind him, small wood shards digging into his bare back as he rose with the momentum and drew Quenisve along its throat. The troll thundered a shout, twisting with unexpected agility and slamming Jaskier into the bars of Ivar and the Griffin's cells as it scrabbled at its neck. Disoriented and likely with more than a few busted ribs, Jaskier jerked to his feet, silently bemoaning the even smaller space in here than out in the room. With so little space to manoeuvre the troll could easily kill him.

Now that he was aware of it, the jingle of chains seemed deafening, the glint of a brass key was bright against the skin of the troll, previously having been hidden under the rolls of its slumped neck. With one huge hand to its neck, the troll turned to him, bat rearing up as it brushed against the opposite side's cells. The scent of its blood was weak, meaning he hadn't nearly went deep enough. Jaskier scowled as he rolled out of the bat's path, being forced to jump as the weapon changed direction at the last moment and the troll swung it at him from the side. He landed on his right leg, knee screaming out louder than he grunted. Quenisve vibrated in his hand, relayering herself with what remained of the ogroid oil.

One hit left, two if he was lucky. Every swipe at the troll's skin would wipe away the oil from the blade. He needed to down it. A thought burst into his brain and he figured he may as well go with it. Even if he died the witchers- no, they'd die too. He didn't want them to die. So that meant he wasn't allowed to die, he had to get his shit together now and do something before he was mince meat.

He reached deep inside himself, grabbing what was left of his Chaos supply and pushed it into the Sign he formed.

"Stop!" He croaked, Axii shining brightly in the absence of light. The candlestick was gone, probably crushed, but he couldn't linger on that thought, instead putting his all into the Sign. The darkness was all-swallowing.

The troll froze, arm holding the bat stopped inches from his face. Jaskier gritted his teeth under the magical strain, the only reason he was still standing being sheer force of will.

"Sit," he managed, feeling the undeniable urge to cough well up in his chest. His sides burned; he'd be lucky if it wasn't a punctured lung. The troll hesitated, conveniently stumbling back from the occupied cells and further into the dark hallway. "Sit," he demanded.

The ugly fuck dropped to the ground, taking up the entire width of the hall. If he had the energy to drop the Axii and risk a Quen he might've but as it was his legs shook and he found himself on his knees in front of it.

"Jaskier," hissed Ivar. probably ready to scold him or something. Jaskier, unfortunately, couldn't hear him very well over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Therefore, the older man went ignored.

Quenisve reared up from his hand and he readied himself. He wound up in a straight pitch and threw her with all his might.

She pierced through the pail as if it was butter, a strangled jerk of the troll its last movement before it toppled backwards with a loud thud. The Axii fell away, leaving Jaskier spitting up blood on the dirty stone. There was a clamour of sound as the witchers spoke, Jaskier too busy retching up what felt like his entire lung to properly pay attention or hear them. The stench of troll blood was thick, Quenisve nudging against his shaking arms a second later. She'd cleaned herself off on the cloth covering the troll's under-regions, now only smelling faintly of her latest kill.

"The key," someone murmured. Jaskier came upon a pause where he felt too lightheaded to be safely standing but did so anyway at the reasoning that he'd finally stopped hacking up a pint of blood. Everything burned, his sides and back feeling hot like the burns from earlier had stretched over them. He found himself on his feet, hand clutching a cell's bars as he fought to regain his non-blurred sight.

"Didn't you lose Quenisve?" Asked Ivar in the lull. "Where's Viocar? Elsiben?"

He thought he might just vomit. Suddenly, he was over the troll, gripping the chain around its neck and _pulling_. The small piece of metal fell to the stone with a plop as he came away with the sole chain, covered in the purple blood of the creature. Jaskier hissed through his teeth as he was forced to bend further, hand nearly crushing his left knee as he leaned on it to stabilize himself. It took a second of disgusting blood-fishing - which was nothing like _real_ fishing - before his numbing fingers found the key, closing around the slippery piece.

The blood in his head did something weird as he returned to his normal height, rocking him back. It would've put him on his ass but the threat of falling in even more blood stopped him and urged his free hand out to grip the bars of the cell nearest.

"C'mon," assured a female voice. Sounded like the Cat. "Get a cell open and one last Aard, then we'll help."

"You can do it," Ivar added, tone reassuring. It bit at him through his haze and pushed him on, trembling fingers pushing the key into the first slot he saw for one. The cell swung open with an earth-shattering creak, and then he found himself standing before a woman he could barely make out the shape of in the dark.

"Here," said the female Griffin's voice. Cool metal that thumped with life was pressed against his hand. He dragged in a breath, summoning what last dregs of Chaos he had to Aard the dimeritium to hell.

The shackles shattered, metal crumbling to dust and fluttering to the floor. Jaskier groaned as his ribs panged, somehow managing to push the key into the woman's hands. She eased him into the hallway, far away from the troll at the far end and vanished from sight.

Not too long later, a familiar hand pressed against his cheek, Ivar hovering over him. Jaskier did his best to nuzzle said hand, getting a low snort out of the older man.

"Good to see you again, kid," confessed the former Grandmaster.

"Thought you were dead," Jaskier coughed, words coming out as some sort of slurred gasp that he hoped made sense. Another witcher appeared over Ivar's shoulder, the unmistakable stance of a Bear clear in the low light. The man's medallion glinted off something, the roaring animal obvious as he situated it back on his neck.

"The mage caught me, made sure to make me watch him spell a dead soldier with some illusion. Can't blame ya, looked dead on."

Another figure appeared, cuddling up to the Bear - who quickly shoved it back.

"Fuck off Merten," hissed the Bear.

"So crude, Ivo," whined the man. Jaskier frowned, looking back to the Bear witcher. He was missing something, something pertaining this man- had something been said to him about the man? He knew him; Ivo of Belhaven. How long had-?

"Bear," he hissed. Those golden eyes turned to glower at him.

"What?" Snapped the man. "Expecting gratitude? Well, you're not getting it."

"How long-" he broke off in a spluttering cough that painted his chest anew. Definitely a ruptured lung. Ivar cursed lowly, rocking up against him to pull him more upright, off the bars that felt like they were burning lines into his back. "-here?"

"I've been here since the twelve-hundreds," snarled Ivo. "So what?"

Jaskier felt something crush him, remembering a bleary memory of Letho mentioning the witcher. That either meant Letho was hallucinating, the monster was out parading as his witcher's copies or there was a doppler out on the lose. If there was a doppler for one what was there to say there wasn't more for the others? Fuck.

"How're we gettin' out?" Chimed a voice. Jaskier opened his eyes to a crowded hallway, witchers stretching limbs as they stood tall.

There was a hum, "What about the mage?"

"Dead," Jaskier spluttered.

"Then the blood-?"

He felt his lips curl in a smirk. The smell of uncertainty flooded the room. Jaskier snorted but instantly regretted it as he went back to hacking up a lung. Ivar's hand rubbed softly at his back, soothing words that were too soft for a creature like him being cooed in his ears.

"Portal," he eventually managed to slur. "Need- hol' han's."

"What?" Questioned someone. "Why?"

"Just do it," sighed Ivar. His father's hand clutched his before he gave the confirmation that everyone was holding hands.

Jaskier pulled a quivering hand up to his medallion, Quenisve settling on his lap as he gripped the metal. "Home."

The world spun. His eyes fluttered to the dark sky above Gvaed's courtyard, rain rushing into his eyes as he toppled onto his back. Groans rung out around him, confirming the others were still alive. Suddenly, Jaskier didn't have the strength to keep his eyes open anymore. He sagged into the puddles, a final weak cough rushing past his lips.


	22. in peace comes worry, in worry comes misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> with Jas resting, the new witchers settle into Gorthur Gvaed whilst trying to not step on imaginary toes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: swearing, themes of death, implied/referenced capture, referenced prostitution, repression, implied injury, weight loss due to starvation, possible PTSD, trauma, anxiety, child neglect,   
> tell me if i missed any x

Aiden would be lying if he wasn't worried.

Sure, yeah, he was _so so so_ happy they were out - because they were free. Freer than birds. Best of all it was a witcher that Ivar knew, which was better than them not knowing them at all. He was beyond words _overjoyed_ at how they were found, released, portalled out. The show of the troll being killed was an added extra. The promise of Stregobor's death was a crowned jewel he wished to have seen.

Except, Jaskier didn't get back up after they were out. And yeah, that might be why he was worrying.

He never wanted to see the look on Ivar's face ever again because that look was _scary._ The heartbroken, worried, determined glint in his sole eye was enough to ward off even the most stubborn of wraiths. Not to mention the way he'd positively _scrambled_ to their saviour as he'd dropped to the ground after the guy had used some magic and portalled them. (Aiden hadn't even thought the guy had any more magic in him after that harsh Axii and the sputtered Aard.)

The Vipers' courtyard was cold and wet. Wind howled through their hair as the rain plastered it to their skin, washing sweat and grime that had been accumulating for years. Aiden yearned for sight of the sun but right now the dark thunderclouds above were alright. The peaceful picture had been destroyed by Jaskier going down and the subsequent panic but otherwise Aiden liked the courtyard.

The rain did them few favours. For one, it cleaned them and Jaskier but otherwise it was nothing more than a hindrance. Now the foyer of the Viper's keep was minorly _flooded_ because of the sheer amount of water the sky could let out and Ivar was in fits due to the blood everywhere and the complete _lack of a potion room._

Of course, there had been a potion room. But the rubble in the doorway - an oddity compared to the pristine keep's state, if one ignored the trail of blood leading from the hall to kitchen, oh, and the fucking body's worth of blood gathered in the largest puddle ever in the hall - said the room had recently been put out of commission. The place stunk of Stregobor's magic, quite literally.

Due to this combination of events/predicaments, Ivar had put most of them on bed rest, politely telling them to fuck off. Not Merten though, because Merten was apparently a _god_ at brewing potions and Jaskier needed a _lot_ of them. Annaliese had offered to stay behind with them and that was probably for the best. Last thing they wanted was for Merten to blow something up.

Anyways, long story cut short; Aiden was out of a cage and technically into a bigger one. But he could leave this one. He just didn't know how yet. Well, no, he did. He's tired, in excuse, and he'd take whatever form of hospitality was thrown at him right now.

Hiking down a mountain in the rain was not preferable either. Nor was not knowing anything about what's happened in the past years. He's scared that the second he'll step off this buoy of safety, he'll be ridiculed and hunted down again. It'll be worse without Lambert, he knows, because Lambert had helped so much, avoiding cities and sticking to backwater villages that didn't recognise a Cat's face. His cute Wolf; a protective puppy by all forms but appearance.

The room Dragonfly picked out was pristine, probably kept clean for guests or something. It wasn't owned by anyone else, for sure, because there was a definite lack of personal embellishments and nothing in the closet or drawers. They'd checked; not wanting to invade a Viper's space with both the former and current Grandmasters being so nice as to let them stay.

The bathrooms, of which there were many, (Aiden found three in ten minutes), were heavenly. Dragonfly showered with him because they were both jumpy and it wasn't like they hadn't seen worse. So they showered together, lathering soft soaps that smelt nice and not too strong. He focused on the patter of the fancy looking device that spewed the water over them after a few taps and let Dragonfly pamper him, doing the same with her when she finished. With the small metal bin and various utensils for hygiene in the room they made good use of the razors and trimmed each others' hair, testing out their control of Igni once they'd finished.

Afterwards, they'd bounced into Stefan. The Crane had pointed them in a favourable direction after fawning over their hair. The dagger-maniac who'd confessed a love for sinking ships led them the right way and in no time they found a sauna. The room was splendid, as per Dragon's compliment, and together they lazed in it for about an hour before eventually slinking off to their chosen bedroom, opposite Ivo's chosen one.

"Where'd you think the other Vipers are?" He asked when they'd both settled into the very nice, very soft but not too soft mattress. The bedframe was a nice four poster one that they'd shamelessly pulled the curtains shut on. Now, in the darkness they were safe, medallions firm against their chests and in a pair. The swish of fur pads over his body reminded him of Stygga and their late winter night piles, where they'd all curled up in the main room with their furs and had exchanged stories and drunk Axel and Joël's latest ale experiment.

His heart ached for the old times but Aiden knew better than most that what was gone was gone. Stygga had fallen and so had the Cat witchers; he and Dragonfly were now a few of even fewer. That was, if there were even any other Cats alive.

"Dunno," Dragon hummed, curling around him. They were both too jittery to chance eating anything _(poison? lies? illusions?)_ so were planning on sleeping away the rest of the day. The rain gushing outside helped soothe both twitchy Cats, its _pitter patter_ doing something nice for their ears. "Maybe they're out on the Path."

It was evident the keep had been left in a hurry. The table was skittered off place, chairs were knocked over but their blades remained in place, as if frozen there. It was unlikely for Vipers to be on the Path without their beloved fangs, much like Aiden doubted Merten could go a day without murmuring something about Lebioda.

Strange lack of other witchers aside, the large donjon in the side of the Tir mountains was obviously well cared for. There wasn't a speck of dust anywhere, even if there was congealed blood smeared into the floor and walls in a curious trail. Although, that was only from the hall to the kitchen. And the blood smelt like Jaskier's.

"Do you think Stregobor spirited them away," Aiden sniggered, running a finger along Dragonfly's soft waist. He could feel her ribs but she could feel his too so he didn't worry; they'd eat, soon, when they were sure this was real and not some great illusion. "And that's why Jaskier made such a mess?"

"Hmm," Dragon giggled, curling her leg through his. In response, he nuzzled her neck, licking a clear stripe along it. She returned the lick in kind along his collarbone. "Maybe. I know I sure wanted to see what was left. He looked cute in red."

Aiden let loose the deep purr that rumbled in his throat in agreement. The noise set off his sister and soon the only sound in the room was their purring, a deep-set murmur that bounced off the walls and seemed to warm the heavy blankets over them.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, just before he fell asleep, he wondered what year it was and, most importantly of all, if Lambert was still alive.

He hoped he was. Aiden liked Lambert.

Ivo of Belhaven prided himself on having sharp wit, being the best of a dying bunch. He had commonly been called cruel, - although he was far from it - emotionless, - even if witchers felt these too and they all knew it - and harsh. He could accept that last one. He _was_ harsh.

He'd grown a layer of thick skin to blot out the pain of the world, hiding under his armour and his dark fur pelts. When people approached him, it was usually to hurt him or con him into something. Contract hunting had been hard for him, people hadn't appreciated a witcher that brooded in the corner and didn't speak much. Not that Ivo cared - the less stupid whoreson humans to approach him the better.

When Junod had spoken to him, revealing he'd taken the same name as him, Ivo had brushed him off. He'd looked the kid dead in the eyes and said, _"It's fine, you'll be dead soon anyway."_ Not to be deterred, the sprite smiled and took a joint contract with him for a mated Griffin pair.

He'd been a good kid. Lively, smiley. Nice to people. He was everything Ivo was not and he'd changed his route to deliberately avoid the kid because he felt jealous. How was it fair, he'd mulled at nights when sleep was far away and meditation was even further, how come a kid like him could smile so brightly and suddenly it was as if everyone forgot he was one of the mutants they spat at and cursed for their stillborn babes and crop failures.

News had reached him a year later of the brat's death. His chest hurt even now, just thinking about it.

Being out of that damned cell made his chest hurt too. But in a good way. Not the rough, jagged _burning_ sensation that filled him at hearing of Junod and his too-soon death to an angry mob.

The old coot Ivar didn't need any help in applying bruise salve or need help piercing the kid's chest to let him breathe. Merten was going coo-coo in the corner over what potion supplies Ivo had helped drag out of the rubble and Annaliese was supervising the stoking of the fire. It was maybe a bit ironic that Jaskier had saved them and almost immediately been inches away from dying but the only reason he was in such a state was _because_ he'd saved them.

Ivo had made it a point to never owe anyone anything but he figured he could make an exception just this once.

The keep was large but not empty. Tapestries lined the walls, the first few unevenly sewn before the thread straightened out and became firmer. There was podiums scattered about the halls, which were a maze in their own right, busts detailing men who had fallen, previous Grandmasters and in a particularly shaded corridor with nothing in it, Ivo found the entire wall to have names etched into it. There was hundreds, if not thousands, but the small dates beside the names made it clear this was a honorary for those who died in the Trials.

Otherwise, with the rain hammering outside and echoing through the large stone, Ivo didn't have much to do. The Cats had flounced off, edgy and flinching at every noise louder than a whisper and he'd left them be.

He found Stefan in the foyer, armed with a mop and a bucket of water that never seemed to get full. At his footsteps, the Crane looked up, ankle deep in the rainwater that had rushed in to soak the lower level of the foyer that wasn't guarded by a high step. Now, Ivo understood why there was a large step in the first place. Flooding was probably a given down here in a donjon.

"Ivo," nodded the pirate slayer. "You have to see this bucket."

"What about it?" He grunted. "Is it big enough for your ego?"

"Not quite," said the man. "I believe it's charmed. The water just never fills beyond a certain point."

And damn if that wasn't smart. "Where's it going to?"

"Probably outside or somewhere," the Crane didn't seem too worried, waving a hand in his pause of mopping up. It looked like he was having fun, boot lapels tugged high as he treaded along the water but it also didn't look as if he was making any headway. "Must be annoying for them to have to clean this every time it rains."

"Might be why they have those medallions, so they don't have to use the front door." Ivo watched the witcher mop with long precise swipes, constantly having to go to the bucket and wring the mop out on the little metal barred cover he'd slipped over it. "Where'd you get the mop?"

"By all means, I do believe the cause has been ignored, seeing how we needed to use it," muttered the witcher, broad accent light with mirth. "The mops and buckets are in a supply closet just down the hall, very easily missed. You'll have to push the door inwards before it opens out."

Silently wondering why a door couldn't open like normal without something happening in this keep, Ivo trudged off. He found the closet, spent about five minutes trying to make it open and finally retrieved a mop. For efficiency, he grabbed another bucket, fingering a metal sheathe off the rack to wring the water through.

He returned to the foyer, dumped the bucket down, clicked the sheathe onto it and rolled up what was left of his boots to cover the holes. Ignoring Stefan's smirk throughout the whole thing was rather easy, made easier when Ivo _accidentally_ turned the mop too quickly and splashed rainwater over the Crane.

"Hey!" The man laughed, not affected by the water in the slightest. Dripping, he twisted his own mop and got Ivo back. Shirt soaked, beard dripping - he'd be cutting it to a goatee as soon as possible - the Bear made it his own personal challenge to make the bald Crane's moustache clump with the dirty rainwater.

That was how Annaliese found them, ten minutes later: soaked to the bone, Ivo's tattered shirt hanging in wet strings, Stefan's entire head shining with water. The Griffin blinked at them once before smiling softly in that way of hers that was more grim than friendly.

"Anna!" chirped the Crane. "Join us, darling!"

"I'd rather not," admitted the woman. Her eyes were thin and she seemed a bit pale in the loom of the keep, still dressed in her old leather gambeson. "May I enquire to the whereabouts of the kittens?"

Ivo snorted at the nickname for their Cat duo, turning back to begin mopping once more. The foyer was looking more of a battlefield now, water swiped up the bare walls where it hadn't been before.

"I directed them to a very nice sauna I found in my adventures," Stefan grinned. "Has Merten finished his devilish concoctions?"

"I think so," hummed Annaliese. She thumbed a rip in her gambeson, eyes distant for a moment before her gaze flicked over the mess they'd made of the foyer. "I suppose I'll go do something about the blood in the hall, shall I? Where did you locate the cleaning equipment?"

"Just down the hall," Stefan said.

"Have to push the door thrice before it opens," Ivo added gruffly, when it became evident the Crane would not.

The Griffin blinked, nodding slowly. "Very well, much appreciated."

With that, she turned on her heel and went in search of the supply closet. Ivo watched her go, swishing his mop one last time at Stefan's smiling face.

"Ugh," moaned the other man. "I swallowed that, you grinch."

Annaliese found herself at a point where there was nothing else for her to do, with Merten happily past the stages of possible explosions and Ivar having settled to sponge-bathing Grandmaster Jaskier. Seeing the man pale and drawn on the cot brought up ill-timed memories of her older brother, pale and sickly after being scratched by a Harpy. Her brother had died after a few days and when the witcher had came for payment for his contract she had become it.

It had been her fault anyway. If she hadn't frozen when the beast came at her, Lonis wouldn't have been injured. Her family wouldn't have been left with the only child they'd hated from birth, but they had been. Annaliese had went years without thinking of her brother, only falling to thoughts of him when her stomach pangs got too much in the cells and the others were being too silent.

It was a shock to be handed over without the invocation of the Law of Surprise, even if Engrid - the nice man who'd taken her - said it had been. She'd suspected such was said to spare her some unfelt emotion of shame at the careless hand-over; all she'd felt was sadness. And now, to be free, to be released from a long capture, was an even greater shock. Not one that had been almost expected, either.

In the present, she stood, mopping at congealed blood with a mop and a bucket at her side that was spelled with a few spells she hadn't seen in years. As she wondered who'd known such magic, questioned who had imbibed the Viper medallions to teleport large groups across the Continent, she swept and swiped and hummed.

When it grew cold and the torches were the only things bright amidst flickering shadows, she righted the table, realigned the chairs but left the blades be. It looked as if the room had been left, abandoned, in a hurry. She didn't want to anger the Grandmaster by doing something so discourteous as touching his peoples' weapons.

Rain poured outside, easily audible to her enhanced ears. With the roaring winds thundering her steps as if drums of war, she followed the trail of blood to the kitchen, doing her best to rid the stone of the stains. The kitchen was not, per se, worse than the hall but it was neither clean.

The blood centred around the sink, making it clear how the man had been forced to cleanse his wounds. A needle and thread sat just outside of the blood, needle cleaned. Unsure of where such things were to be placed, she did not touch these, instead mopping the floor to the best of her ability before trying her hand at Signs. Her Clutch wavered, blood conforming to a sphere that was no better than a trainee's. When her magic dulled and her Chaos thrummed, weak after such long a time of disuse, she dug out a few cleaning rags and got to work with them.

She cleaned to the best of her ability, only stopping when she realised the torches were not lit and she had nothing else to do. Griffin witchers were masters of Signs, trained to use them more than any other witcher, and to make up for their general lack of battle-readiness, their hearing and eyes were enhanced to their potions greatest abilities. Of course, focusing on two senses so keenly meant they were not as good as those Schools whom focused solely on improving one. Put a Griffin against a Cat and the Cat would surely see better but put a Griffin against a Bear in the dark and the Griffin would rule.

Tired as she was, Annaliese couldn't keep down her apprehension. Whenever people offered her things there was a cost, always, and she hadn't yet figured out the price the Viper wished to be paid. She had no coin, no longer was in possession of her weapons nor potions and the only clothing she owned was what was on her right this moment. A ripped gambeson, ragged leather leggings and holed leather boots would not be feasible payment. She could only hope the Grandmaster would not want a night alone. Such would be difficult with Annaliese's detestation for sex obvious within her scent. She'd heard from Ivar that Grandmaster Jaskier could smell a boar from miles; there would be no way he wouldn't smell her distaste which could anger him - one of the last thinggs she wanted to do. Although if the man required such as payment, she would do so for a warm bed and food.

These worries swirled on her, weighing her down. She put away the cloths she'd been using to clean the countertops and relocated the mop to its cupboard, finding two other mops there as well. Ivo and Stefan were done with their flood clean-up, it seemed. Annaliese had never known a keep to flood; Kaer Seren most certainly had not, only snow-ins. It had been too cold up there for the snow to even chance melting. The thought made her stomach twist, remembering the sight the aftermath of the avalanche had left. She had not been there that year, missing out on the final pass by a week. When she'd made it the next year it was to a destroyed home and a monument for the dead.

Her stomach begged for food, ribs tight as she stood in the hall. She was unsure of where the guest rooms were, unsure if there was clothing that would fit her. Annaliese did not want to steal any Vipers' clothing, least they return and require it. She stood there for a great time, trying to diminish her worry before the scent leaked into the stone around her.

"Annaliese," a voice called. "Are you alright?"

Whirling to see who was talking to her, Annaliese came upon Ivar standing behind her. She blinked at him, not quite able to stop her eyes widening. She was a disgrace - not having heard the man walk behind her until he'd spoken. This was how witchers died on the Path, they let their focus lapse and suddenly they were dead. She swallowed awkwardly and offered a nod, unable to bow due to Ivar's closeness. "Ivar. I am well. How is Grandmaster Jaskier?"

"He's resting," said the older man. "I was just on my way to the kitchens, would you like to join me?"

The look in his eye told her to accompany him. Annaliese agreed, dreading that this would be when the cost was revealed.

They entered the kitchen, Ivar taking a small sniff before smiling a small smile. He flicked an Igni at the torches and glanced at the cleaned floor and tables. "You cleaned. Did a good job of it, too. Thank you."

"It was the least I could do," she acknowledged, standing anxiously as the taller witcher began rummaging through cupboards. She could've cried at the amount of noise he was making before reminding herself that this was his home and he could do what he wished within it. Annaliese no longer had one.

"Lamb stew?" He suggested, having disappeared into the pantry.

"Ah," she hesitated, unsure of how to tell him she abhorred eating meat when she could help it. Although, it was only kind to eat what your host gave you. Stregobor had only ever given them vegetables and mushy soups that looked as if animals had urinated in them.

"Don't like lamb?" Ivar questioned, having popped his head out of the large wooden doors and seen her face. Surprisingly, he didn't look one bit miffed at this.

"I prefer to not eat meat," she said quietly, unsure of his reaction. Many before him had laughed at her, called her foolish, and a fair share had even tried to shove meat down her throat. Sometimes with great force. Annaliese did not wish to be kicked out, banned from her only current place to stay. There was so much information she required before she could even go onto the Path again.

"Vegetable stew, then."

Ivar didn't sound nor look angry. She let her pupils thin, looking closer at the man's eyes to see if he was disgruntled. It would not do to offend her host. She'd sooner whip herself with a cat of nine tails before going back on her manners.

She queried, "Is that alright?"

"Of course," Ivar hummed, already chopping fresh vegetables. Her stomach cramped at the sight of them, forcing her to bite her lip before she made any impolite sounds. "Why would it not be?"

The former Vipers' Grandmaster's eye bored into her, the yellow-blue a stark contrast against the gloom of the kitchens. Even with a few torches lit it was dark, although the man appeared not to mind. All of a sudden, she felt on the spot, pressured to answer. She gulped and stuttered something that sounded like 'not to worry' whilst she cupped her hands to herself, ever conscious of what people thought of a Griffin that made extravagant gestures with their hands. Some other witchers took it as a threat, she knew, knowing of their School's proficiency with Signs that could be easily activated with the wriggling of fingers. Most of those 'threatened' witchers were not kind, ready to lash out with daggers or punches at the first hint of trouble, perceived or not.

"Why don't you go and find Stefan?" The man suggested. Her heart sunk at the dismissal. She'd been horribly rude and now she'd have to lie with her stomach cramps for yet another night. "I sent him towards the clothing chests. There should be more than enough that will fit you, take some of it to your room and clean up. If you see anyone send them this way for the stew, hmm?"

"Of course," she nodded, quite unsure of what else to say. At Ivar's reassuring but gruff nod, she skittered out of the kitchens and tracked down Stefan's scent.

Even after years apart from the coast, the man smelt faintly of seasalt. She wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not but such was not her place to judge. The Crane was in some large room, in the middle of the weaving corridors and crisscrossing paths. Gorthur Gvaed was an obstacle course of its own right, decorated with plaques and statues much like Kaer Seren had been. The upside to it all was that the stone was slightly warmer than her old home's had been; she felt disloyal for thinking better of this place, oh what many things her elders would have to say were they alive and not remembered only by a memorial with their names etched on.

"Stefan," she greeted when she entered the room, slipping past the ajar door easily. There was chests everywhere, racks holding countless ones for what seemed like miles. Little slips of aged paper were slipped under a fold on every chest, detailing what was inside each. The resident Bear was lurking in the corner, digging through a slightly larger ground chest of animal pelts that smelt of sandalwood and cedar. "Ivo."

The Bear grunted, obviously preoccupied with finding a pelt he liked - judging from the number of pelts slumped over the chests surrounding. The Crane, on the other hand, was much more cheerful, turning to her with a smile that could brighten the world. "Anna," he gushed, brandishing two tunics for her to see. "Which one should I pick? Red or yellow? Ivo's absolutely no help."

"I said neither," snarled the Bear. "They're both ugly as fuck."

Annaliese was in agreement with the man. The tunics were ghastly, the yellow an off-tone colour that was reminiscent of dehydrated urine and the red an odd shade that she'd only ever seen cain-worshippers wear.

"Hush, Ivo," Stefan rolled his eyes at Ivo, looking back to her with bright eyes.

"Are there no other colours?" She asked, blanching when she realised how rude that sounded. "Ah- no, I meant..."

His moustache twitched. Ivo burst into growled laughter.

"The Griffin agrees!" He boomed, seeming to have settled on a brown pelt that matched his hair. "Your taste is for shit, Crane. Give it up!"

She felt horribly wicked now, walking over to the open chest beside Stefan to peer into it in hopes of finding something suitable for the man. The entire chest was filled with garments of the same colours, evidently a stash to hide them or something of the sort. She felt a frown wobble at her lips and stepped back, deciding to find something to wear before her gambeson gave up the ghost and fell apart in front of them all.

"Ivar has begun making a vegetable stew," she said when Ivo had quietened somewhat. Stefan was standing, half dumbstruck by the fact his chosen garments were not to either's liking. She didn't dare look at him, hoping to pass herself off as busy looking at the labels of the chests.

"Oh," Stefan hummed. "I hope there's carrots in it, haven't had those in years."

"Vegetable?" Ivo scowled. "There better not be any fucking carrots in it."

"I'll eat your carrots, grumpy," smirked the bald, moustache twitching with his amusement. "If not, I'm sure someone else will."

"Who the fuck would willingly eat carrots?" He argued. "Scrumpy little things that aren't even good for anything. Once seen a babe that would only eat carrots; fucking thing had an orange nose. You want an orange nose?"

 _Women's tunics,_ one chest was described as. Annaliese hefted the heavy lid up and tried to not wince at the amount of clothing inside. She felt disgusting searching about in them with her dirty sleeves. She came upon a light tunic that could be efficient, although as she lifted the white thing from its foldings, it appeared to be a bit small.

"That's too fucking big," Ivo growled over her shoulder, making her jump. She rocked back down on her heels, turning to blink at the man. He stared back. "I could cup your waist with my hands, thumb to thumb. That'll be huge on you."

She frowned, looking back at the tunic. "Am I really that small?" She asked, fully knowing that she was shorter than nearly all of their group. Assured, she'd lost a lot of weight through starvation and muscle mass could only make up so much when one struggled to remain awake on what little food was given. She knew her gambeson hung on her, knew her once tight leggings could now be classified as baggy trousers but... she hadn't thought something that seemed so small would still be _too_ small.

"Being small isn't that bad, Anna," Stefan piped up. "Little ones on a ship are good for getting into the nooks and crannies - there no one can get at them, not even storms. Plus, Ivo, you don't know that the tunic's too small!"

"Can I cup your waist?" Ivo asked, towering over her. She gave a nod, startled when his large hand wrapped around her. His other hand joined, his thumbs touching. It felt as if he could lift her just like this and shake her within an inch of her life. He didn't even have to squeeze her, in fact, the gambeson was being bent under the compression but Annaliese barely felt anything. Stefan gaped as the Bear stepped back and showed just how small her waist was by re-enacting the motion without her in the middle. She was positively petite.

"If she gets any smaller she'll have to wear childrens clothing!" Squawked the Crane, pushing his hands into the gap between Ivo's. He wriggled his hands, both palms barely fitting in the small space. The Bear scowled at him and let his hands fall to his sides, turning to the chest she'd been looking at.

"What colour?" He huffed, gently tugging the too big tunic from her grasp. He looked at it for a moment before setting it off to the side. Ivo pulled out a black tunic that was near the same size as the one she'd previously held and added it to the pile.

"I," she stuttered. "I don't mind."

He frowned at something before bending further to grab something at what seemed to be the bottom of the chest. He came back with one tunic, a light green, that looked awfully small. "This should fit," for reference, he held it against her without actually touching her. He nodded and motioned for her to hold it. "What else do you need?"

"Everything," she said, getting a chuff from the large man. Even if he had lost most of his muscle mass and fat he was still very tall and bulky, as most Bears were. She'd heard Letho of Gulet looked something like a Bear, large and fierce with his jagged 'v' scar over his bald head, eyes like an angry pitviper.

"Right," said the man, sneering over at Stefan. "Grab some stuff for the Cats - these 'ere'll fit Dragonfly."

"I'll find something for Aiden," nodded Stefan, happily bouncing into a chest to root through. "Blue or black?"

"Both," Annaliese suggested. "He looks like he'd like the darker colours."

Ivo was surprisingly efficient in finding her clothes whilst putting aside most things that he found that would fit Dragonfly. When he was done, he stood and looked down at the pile of clothes she'd ended up with, socks and boots included amongst the tunics, string-tying henleys and variously lengthed trousers. There was all sorts of materials, from cotton to leather to something that felt rather slippery but was neither silk nor lace.

"Thank you, Ivo," she smiled.

He nodded, grabbing the stuff for Dragonfly as he frowned at Stefen, who seemed to have lost both his arms in a chest. "Don't worry yourself. Stefen, fucking hurry up, you fish. Aiden needs clothes too."

"What of Merten?" She questioned.

"Lazy fuck can get his shit himself," snorted the Bear. "Idiot should've grabbed stuff before going to shower."

Annaliese didn't understand what separated the Cats from the auspicious Manticore but she did not ask. Instead, she nodded and edged towards the door, "I'll be going then."

"See you," Stefan turned to beam at her. "I'll see if I can save any carrots for you, dear."

"Much obliged," she giggled, escaping to go find a bathroom where she could cut her over-long hair and wash herself.


	23. rise above the chaos, reach in deep and find your courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> everyone's home but is everyone happy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS : swearing, implied/referenced rape, implied starvation, lucid dreaming, chains, drowning, betrayal,

"Not dying again, am I?" He asked rhetorically, looking over to the beast that sat primly beside him.

The creature with the arms of a fish and a frog, the legs of a goat and a cow, the tail of a piglet, the head of a bear, eyes of a dragon and the teeth of a viper was perched to his right. Its long legs hung over the turret's walls, much like Jaskier's did now. He hadn't had a lucid dream in quite some time, so it had been a surprise to wake in his dreams and find the same man that had walked him through the Trials no other had survived. That man hadn't ever shown up again, until now. Even then, it sat in silence, not even moving to acknowledge him.

(Not that Jaskier needed acknowledgement. He wasn't _that_ pathetic.)

Wind ruffled his short hair, rifling through the beasts fur, scattering goosebumps over the human flesh of his torso. The purple tasselled scarf wrapped around his hips shivered in the breeze, short and long multicoloured tassels flicking up to surf the air currents. No sound nor movement came from the man-beast, none was expected.

Jaskier sat, rocking his legs back and forth as he looked over the snowy peaks of the Tiran mountains. It was winter here, much unlike the waking world, where summer was only just encroaching on them. Below, bustled a lively courtyard, boys running about, chittering of training successes and laughing, trainers stomping from one side of the yard to another, grevious scowls disappearing through wooden doors. If this was a memory he was re-seeing, Jaskier did not know the date of it, nor did he recognise his body's age. All he knew was this was long before the Sacking. There was a great time period between him getting his armour and then.

He was most certainly a witcher, muscle lining his form, armour lines indented so deeply into his body that he could've only reached the keep recently for wintering. A light grey shirt was pulled over his chest, old leather trousers that he remembered loving before they were burnt by the Nilfgaardian Army. At his side, resting atop the parapet stone much like he and his visitor, sat Viocar and Quenisve, nestled together in a way he'd forgotten they'd done.

Phantom pains ached through him, a pang of his ribs here, an itch and spasm of his knee there. Likely imprints from the waking world, seeing as his lung was punctured. His core bristled with heat, magical exhaustion making itself clear.

"Guess I overdid it," he murmured to the winds, his only listener the beast that paled in comparison to the monster he was. "I never have understood limits, I suppose."

"Magic returns just as spring does," howled the man beside him. His roars echoed through Gorthur Gvaed, freezing memory people in their tracks. Boys halted mid-run may have been disquieting once upon a time, but Jaskier had long grown used to moving with a speed that humans appeared to be statues. Instead of moving or flinching or speaking, he listened as the beast's roar echoed, returning as a wolf's howl that shook the stone of the turret and made it feel warm.

"Indeed," he agreed, for in all his years his magic had always came back. "And for that, my friend, I am grateful."

The beast's head turned to him, scaled eyes shuttering once before the stare became unblinking. He stared back, once again falling through sand dunes and the deep recesses of sea that no longer held sirens who so obviously swam amuck. With monsters mostly gone, hiding in dark cracks of stone deep beyond civilisation, Jaskier let himself tumble into the depths of the beast, opening his eyes as his bare feet rubbed against hot sand.

A sahara's sun gleamed above, a sin layering a wrath upon the cursed being to tread on its path. As a Viper, he stood tall, let the sand quiver between his toes as the beast appeared once more, standing now with a red scarf around its middle. The tassels were blue this time, a dark colour that was the colour of Skellige's seas.

Eyes bored into him, sand picking up in an unseen gale to circle around them. It towered with a hurricane-esque fashion, rearing up high into the sky.

"Do you truly wish to test me once more?" He asked, tired beyond words.

No words came but there was no need: _Show me what you have,_ declared its dark grin.

Jaskier hummed, feeling his clothes melt away for a skirt he was sure was called a lehenga. Its silken wraps twined around him, patterns on the ankle-length garment carving into his skin. Past the pain of the waking realm, this was nothing. Yet, somehow, Jaskier knew this was more final than anything else. The skirt flared in the winds, its black base striking against the embroidered golden lace. Despite its pleats it was light, his legs freed by the wafting layers.

Before him, the beast stood, animalistic gaze appraising. With a low rumbling growl, the sands parted, revealing them to be stood on a narrow ledge of sand between two peninsulas. The land bridge was narrow by a metre but long by ten, life for miles wide was gone, the sea the only thing to make noise as it grumbled around them, the soft _whoosh_ of the waves crashing against the islands behind and in front of them murmuring a haunted tune for their actions.

His shirt was gone, scarred chest left uncovered. At this sudden change, his ribs no longer ached nor his knee. He took a deep, salt-ridden breath of the freshest air possible beyond the mountains and felt both lungs expand seamlessly, numbly; as they should. Jaskier felt his lips twitch in a smile, top lip curdling back in a promise. The beast huffed through its nostrils and Viocar and Quenisve appeared, heavy in his hands.

"I have many things," he spoke. "Horror, pain, laughter, love. Presently, I have been rocked."

_Why,_ asked the crashing waves. A seagull squawked from far off, its long white wings flapping to the air currents as it dove for fish.

"Unspeakables have never affected me quite so much," he mused to the snapping of the beast's teeth. The gull swooped, flapping towards them, a small silver fish in its beak. "Perhaps it has now due to my chosen bonds."

The beast-man watched, jaw snapping open when the bird flapped past. A tongue, longer than any creature's he had seen, snaked out, flinging towards the animal. Jaskier watched as the purple tongue wrapped around the shrill bird and tugged it into the beast's mouth. Its jaw snicked shut, throat bulging like a feasting crane's.

Those blue endless eyes remained on him the entire time. _Overcome this,_ they demanded, waves biting at the land bridge.

"How?" Jaskier questioned. "I've never had to before. I'm not sure I know how."

"This is no different to grief," thundered the beast, jaw peeling open, fangs slick with blood. The plasma dripped down its fur throat, chest painted red in the same way Nekker Chieftains painted their faces red with clay. "Forgive yourself and move on. Bury it under understanding and pick up your weapons to fight the oncoming tide."

Quenisve and Viocar were pulled from his hands, hauled away by an unseen force. The beast surveyed, nodding once as it clutched the two fangs under its flipper-fin arm and turned its back. Jaskier let it walk away, eyes on its lanky mismatched gait and the too-long cow leg contrasting against the goat's. Its waistscarf shimmered, flushing black as it stepped onto the next sand peninsula, only turning once it had dropped the blades into the sand and kicked the yellow grains over the blades with a hoof.

_Survive,_ it commanded.

Chains wrapped around him, rising from the sand like locusts. They started at his bare ankles, latching on as blistering ropes and crawling up his legs, cool metal scratching at scars he didn't feel. A blink later, against his better judgement, he reopened his eyes to find the skirt was now a lead weight, toppling him to his knees. The chains continued, unrepentant as they climbed over his lehenga and encircled his waist, tightening there for a moment before spiralling up to his neck, and finally, his head. They threaded around him like vultures to meat, wafting between his eyes and weighing him down.

It was like a birdcage, except he was the bird and there was no room to move, thin but heavy chains wrapping around and pushing his wrists together. He gasped a breath, throat dry as he wildly swung his gaze around for the beast, finding it not where he last seen.

Around him, the land bridge widened greatly as the tides pulled back, rearing up in a mighty tidal wave to both sides. Just when he thought they'd stop and crash in on him, they kept going, thousands of litres of water being picked up in the huge cascadic.

The beast appeared before him, its sticky frog hand reaching out to cup his cheek. The action was too nostalgic of Stregobor, making him flinch back. It didn't seem to care, eyes gleaming as the fish's fin morphed into something resembling a shimmery mirage where instead of a fin there was instead a hand. This new hand cupped his left hip, grip lethal and burning. Jaskier fought back a scream as the hand squeezed, tugging him towards the beast.

"You are strong, Jaskier," groaned the bear's face. "You simply need to believe it."

And suddenly, there were hands all around him, clawing up out of the sand, of all tones, reaching for him. One gripped his ankle, tugging him down into sand that gobble him up like quicksand did. The other hands quickly joined, latching onto where-ever they could. The Grandmaster Viper clamped his jaw, gritting his teeth shut as those hands pulled at his lips, as they clawed at his eyes, ripping at his hair. He sat and sat and sat, preserving past the hands scratching and gripping and tearing, peeling skin from muscle and muscle from bone until there was nothing left of him but blood and agony.

There was the roar of water, the sole warning before two humongous tidal waves rushed down on him, both well over twenty foot high. He bent his head, hands scrabbling at him still.

It was as if a storm thundered in his head as the tidal waves crashed down on him. The hands continued to pull at him, grounding him against the seafloor as the waves filled up the air and remained there as an ocean. Blue shimmered around him, the same darkness that had haunted him in Stregobor's cellblock now gushing down on him. Sight was lost as his breath was stolen, hearing gave way to the popping of eardrums when smell became nothing but water up his nose.

He would drown, dream or not. Jaskier did not want to drown; had to survive.

_If you wish to survive it will have to be for yourself,_ gurgled the beast. Even under the sea its voice was deafening. He was surprised he could hear anything past the hands cupping his ears.

_I will not become selfish,_ he thought.

A tremor rocked the sand of the seafloor. His legs were swallowed by it, some form of liquefaction taking him prisoner.

_Then you will perish here,_ decreed the beast. A hand squeezed his throat and he lost his air, water pouring down his airways. He shook weakly, vision remaining steady despite his struggles. _Goodbye, Jaskier. Your purpose is lost._

_No,_ he thought. _How could you- why- how dare you-_

_Speak clearly or not at all,_ taunted his monster.

_I will not die here. I refuse to._

_You are so sure,_ mocked a bear's roar.

Waist deep in liquefied sand, hands numb, chest number, Jaskier tilted his head to the surface and grinned.

Sand trembled, the water wavered. His chest tightened before his core expanded. The ocean obeyed him, falling back with a murderous cry. He needed no purpose to live, now he understood.

If he died the beast died. If he died who would protect Geralt from Letho's concerned wrath. If he died uselessly in some un-named ditch what was the point of him having lived, where was his legacy, where was his heart?

What was the point in drowning if he couldn't drown?

The sand rejected him, leaving him to send the hands back with a tremendous Aard. The sand reformed around him, the ocean disappearing from above him completely. The leaden-weight chains that had held him down signified his fears, signified what kept him back from achieving his potential; things that had hurt him, maybe even could again in the future.

He looked down at the chains, saw words and names scratched into each link. _Stregobor_ was a repetitive figure, alongside other, more vague ones, such as, _Nilfgaard_ and _Trauma_. Surprisingly, although each name was someone from his past - _The Crane's Butcher_ and _Berengar the Wolf Traitor_ \- there was one he had never before thought would truly hinder him.

_Serrit | Egan._

Jaskier hadn't known Serrit had a second name. He wasn't one of those who had changed his first name to his current after becoming a witcher, he knew for sure. Jaskier had kept tabs on that and of all the ones who had changed their name, including Ilester and Ragnar, Serrit was not going by a newer name.

Perhaps an alias that had stuck? With War came need for protection and thus many false identities had been created. It wasn't a farfetched thing to assume the boy had liked one of his fake names more than his current. But then, why not go by it or tell anyone? Maybe he had told people. Jaskier - although Grandmaster - was not privy to everything in his keep and if the boy used the name outside of the donjon's walls then it would make sense why he had never heard of it.

He thought of Geralt, his strong Wolf, his long pretty hair and his shimmering golden eyes. The briefest image of Renfri, alive and smirking, made his heart shudder. Every link that was etched _Stregobor_ shattered.

Lighter both physically and mentally, he breathed in the seaside air, watching with bloodshot eyes as the receded waters flushed back to their normal. Once again he was on the land bridge.

He thought of Ivar, his father, a man back from the not so dead. _Nilfgaard_ 's links crumbled. His hands were free, he moved them from his lap and clutched at the remaining loops around his waist.

He thought of Letho and Ragnar, Kolgrim and Pietr, Lanir and Auckes, Tarviel and Gerring, Lambert and Eskel, Yennefer and Triss, Ivar and Vesemir, Geralt. _Trauma_ crumbled, _Berengar_ dissipated, _Butcher_ fell apart, _Anxiety_ shattered, _Hopelessness_ turned to dust.

_Family,_ he thought and smiled so wide his cheeks ached. _Serrit | Egan_ shook and the final links of the chain vanished, Jaskier now unbound. His skirts lightened.

The beast stood before him now, waistscarf yellow like buttercups. The blood from earlier dripped down his chest but Jaskier was not bothered by it, instead drawn to attentiveness as it rolled in circles and formed pentacles on its skin.

_"You are free,"_ it declared, voice both an echo and a shout.

Jaskier pulled himself to his feet, more capable than ever. He was thrilled, excited, ready. There was things to do: dopplers to hunt, boys to question, new witchers to help feel safe, a bubble dimension to pull his kin from.

"Thank you," he said, summoning Quenisve to his side. Viocar stayed buried on the peninsula, a remnant of time gone by. The beast-man watched him keenly, eyes a torid green. When it caressed his cheek and gripped his hip, he did not flinch. He laughed instead.

His eyes flickered. The sterile scent of the medbay flooded him, chest wrapped in clean, soft bandages. Ivar sat at his bedside, flicking through a book he'd recreated with magic after the Sacking had burnt their library. A yellow-blue eye flicked over to him, his grin pulled on the ragged scar that had claimed his eye.

"Son," the old man greeted.

"Father," he hummed back, feeling as if the pressure of the last few weeks had been lifted. "I'm in dire need of some white chalk."

"Oho?" Smirked the man, well used to his eccentrities. "I'm sure there's some around here. You need it now?"

"As soon as possible," he professed.

"Well, time for walkies," Ivar settled the book atop the bedside table Ragnar kept bandages and sterile gloves in and stood, bones creaking. Jaskier huffed at him and accepted the helping hand off the bed after sitting up.

"I think we should play sneak," suggested Lanir, after he'd gotten over the blaise-ness of his hair.

"It's barely been ten minutes," said Ragnar, still hunched over the medallions, poking them as one would a snake. Gerring looked from their medic to the group of boys and cleared his throat. Most eyes flew to him.

"I think it's a good idea," he agreed. Lanir cheered loudly, grinning like a maniac. "But I'll remain here, in case the medallions do something."

"You're just scared of losing," Auckes snickered, having wrestled Letho under his arm without much of a fuss. "A'ight! I claim Letho for Team Auckes!"

"I can do it," Ragnar offered, only now pulling himself to his feet. Gerring snorted him, showing exactly what he thought of the younger man's proposal. "It's no bother, really."

"Hey!" Cawed Tarviel, bounding over to swing off Kolgrim's shoulder. "Then we claim Kolgrim!"

"What?" Squawked Kol, belatedly trying to struggle out of his brother's grasp. "NO! Auckes, how could you do this to me?"

"Sorry," harrumphed Auckes, pulling at his bandana to tighten it. "You and what army, Tar?"

"This army," chimed Lanir and Pietr, on the ball as ever. Pietr took the initiative and tugged the Wolf in too, grinning when the man nodded along.

"We're outnumbered," rumbled Letho, now standing to his full height and leaving Auckes to cling on. The giant of a man darted forth, wrapping an arm around Ilester very carefully and simultaneously slinging Ragnar and a surprised Alice onto his back. Both apprehended boys gave groans of protest but went with it as Letho bounded off, taking to the shadows with his quarry. "To the Gallows!"

That left Kolgrim, Geralt and the Trio standing dumbly, Gerring stood over the medallions and Serrit in the corner. The four boys didn't even spare Serrit a glance before taking off through the doorway, their lateness having decreed them as the chasers in their game of hide-and-seek that normally involved a lot more blades than the usual child-friendly game humans played.

"Not going too?" Gerring grunted, still on edge with Serrit. Although the boy had sunk down onto a bench - the hard wooden ones they'd kept before the Sacking and Jaskier's adamance for chairs - he knew better than to underestimate him. Serrit was a trained Viper like the rest of them, had survived the Black War (nicknamed as such by the younger boys, namely Lanir) and had fought alongside them for years. Nilfgaard hadn't downed him and he was well over eight hundred summers; the boy was dangerous, even if Jaskier had brushed him off as a little bug.

It was always the smaller pests that caused food shortages and sent villages hungry. It was the smaller insects that spread ten-times more disease than the bigger ones. It was the little guys one such as he had to look out for.

Unfortunately, he had no bug spray as of current. Letho had thundered off to play like the brat he was and now Gerring was left with their medallions clutched in his hands and staring down their most recent traitor like a fool, with no weapon.

"Not sure they'd let me join," said the boy. He was right about that and Gerring saw no point in arguing. "How are you?"

Gerring peered at him, sitting down slowly on the bench opposite. The medallions were set level with him, in the space between his thighs, far from the table and far from any possibly twitchy hands.

"Was planning on watering my tulips after dessert," he lied, knowing full well he had no tulips. But it was only a half lie, as he'd been planning on watering and trimming the crop - metaphorically; warming his boys up before telling them to fuck off back home. He would've told them to not come back until winter, because gods-damn-it he'd chosen to stay in the keep for some peace, not to have everyone over for any time _after_ winter's passing.

"Ah, tulips," Serrit nodded. "Flowers of many meanings. Yellow for happy thoughts, white for forgiveness, purple for royalty."

"Loyalty?" Gerring queried, pretending to have misheard. "Maybe we should get you some to apologise."

It was clear, to a man of his age and experience, that Serrit was nothing short of disgusted. He hid it well though, scent not even changing, but his brow twitched and Gerring's uncanny hearing picked up on a low intake of breath that didn't match his breathing schedule. Boy played a good game but against experience he was doomed.

In that moment, Gerring decided to lick up to the lad in an effort to see what had him reacting so strongly. If the bastard was plotting something, he'd stab him. He paused, straining for any nearby heartbeats before he put this into motion. When he found none within immediate hearing distance, all the boys down in the far end of the keep, he leant forward.

"Shame the bomb didn't work," he whispered quietly. Quiet enough for only the boy in front of him to hear.

Serrit didn't blink. "Pardon?"

Coupled with the sudden horrorfied scent and the shocked tone, Gerring was half-sure he'd fucked it up. He'd need to prostrate himself on his knees before Jaskier ever looked at him again, _if_ the boy could and wasn't already dead. (Gerring knew he'd came back from worse. A little stab wouldn't put his Grandmaster down for long.)

He repeated, even lower this time: "Shame the bastard's still living. What's the chances of us getting back and finding him dead on the floor?"

The boy broke into a wide grin. "Oh fifty-fifty, I'd say. Bastard doesn't know when to stop."

Gerring grunted a chuckle. "How in the Seven Hells did you manage to fuck up that bomb? I would've rigged it to blow immediately."

Jaskier had told him all about the Eating Fire, in great detail despite his short tone and snappish demeanour. The soap could've killed him, if enacted right. He'd gotten lucky Serrit was an idiot.

"Honestly," sighed Serrit. "I don't fuckin' know. I rigged it like that and everything. Guess Stregobor musta done something to it. Asshole likes his games."

"Yeah," Gerring shrugged. "Well, what can you do. What's done is done."

"Mhmm," agreed Serrit, leaning his head on his propped up palm. "You should've helped, Ger. One of your bombs would go down a treat."

He gave the boy a pseudo-mirthful look. "And let myself be traced back when Letho sticks his nose in? No, thank you. Tell me, you didn't join Strego 'cause of Alice, did you?"

His teasing smile let the bastard in on a fake alliance. "Nah," admitted Serrit. "He dropped hints and all but I didn't really care, woulda done it anyway. Crusher needs to be de-throned."

"When'd this hatred pop in?"

"After the War," said the man wistfully. His eyes grew distant, as most's did when they thought back. "Couldn't stand the way he ordered us about - so what if he gutted some king? That doesn't make him any special. Letho killed Demavend the Third or something a few years back after he threatened us and nobody made him boss!"

"He's Second in Command," Gerring reminded, trying to sound bitter over it. It wasn't hard, he truly was - if even a little. He'd long ago accepted it. The Vipers needed a sturdy Second, not some old man inches away from the grave.

"I woulda put you there," declared Serrit, giddy and passionate with a force that got humans gutted and monsters destroyed. "You should've been Second, experience and all that. Wish Jaskier coulda stayed with his Wolf bitch and not dragged us into this."

"Oh," he smirked with strain. Believe it or not, he rather liked Geralt. The boy was good for Jas. "Had a date, did you?"

"Pssh," snorted the idiot traitor. "I coulda been ploughing her right now but no- Bastard Grandfucker has to go and antagonize people and force jelly down our throats while he does it."

Gerring thought of Serrit's head on a pike, stabbed upright in his greenhouse and laughed.

"You're a damn good actor, old man," appraised the boy. "I wouldn't have even known you were like this 'less you said. Damn does your girl pack a punch."

"Have to put on a show for the others," he said, playing it off with modesty. "I've been brewing over this for years, you get used to it."

"Yeah, guy's a selfish bastard. Remember 1162, when Pietr broke his arm? Fucker didn't even apologize or nothin', told him to take a Swallow, reset it and move on! Who the fuck does that?"

Jaskier had said that in assurance, after Ragnar had checked over the brat. Pietr had fallen off a cliff doing recon but he'd finished the job before retreating to their moving caravan - which had then been their headquarters, taking a leaf out of the Cats' book.

Gerring said nothing, just nodded, twisting his face up in the way he knew was hard to read in order to hide the immense urge to strangle this kid.

"And '63, when Ilester went down for a month! Bastard didn't even care, barely looked at him - sent Auckes and me to go get him out, didn't even thank me when I dragged Est's broken ass out of the dungeons for him. Then, when he pulled us out of a ditch after getting back to Gvaed and scouting the Predator's Mile, he expected us to thank him! How arrogant can somebody get, flopping around making others do your dirty work, I mean, did you see him being sympathetic once to us?"

Jaskier was plenty sympathetic. It wasn't his fault he found words difficult to use. This was known by every Viper. Gerring had thought they'd been accepting of it after the trauma the man had faced.

(Because surviving a Sacking was no easy feat.)

Serrit powered on without pause. "Nah, bastard has a sore leg, oh no. _I've_ got a sore finger, I can't lift that log - and then Jaskier tells me to do it anyway because his stupid fucking knee won't _bend_? Yeah, right."

His patience snapped like a twig in a storm.

"It disgusts me."

Serrit was caught blindsided. His tone revealed this much: "What does?"

"That you believe this bullshit you spout. Have you so conveniently forgotten '59? Jaskier's leg was crushed, this is common knowledge. It pains him even now. You've seen him during winter, on colder days, when he can barely walk, yet you dare to brush off his injury?"

"You stand here, Serrit, nothing but a traitor," Gerring continued. "You dare stand beside me and curse out a man I will follow to the death. Remember who riled us for war. Remember who you fought with."

"The war was a selfish crusade for revenge!" Serrit spluttered. "We did not so much as fight _with_ him as _for_ him. Jaskier's always been a heartless dictator, a nobody that wanted more."

"It appears you have your roles mixed up," the older man cut his rant short upon a pause. "Jaskier may have been selfish but he fought with us, gave us something we would not have gained otherwise. If you believe yourself to be so almighty, where is your army?"

"I would not need an army to defeat a bastard like that," sneered the fool.

Gerring shook his head, wondering if this was the same bone-heavy weariness that Jaskier oft felt. "Your words make me wonder if we even stood on the same battlefields."

"How dare you-" Serrit was cut off once again as the keep shuddered, black and white colours flickering as the stone fell out from under their feet.

Free falling to the sweet song of Serrit's screams, Gerring grunted and closed his eyes, arms folded over his chest as he clutched the medallions. His boots clicked onto stone, legs taking his weight once more and he opened his eyes to find a chalk pentacle scrawled around him. The courtyard was littered with them, one for each person within the bubble dimension.

Jaskier stood in the centre of the yard, back straight, shoulders tense as he nodded to them all. At his shoulder stood an uncanny lookalike of Ivar Evil-Eye, a group of six other witchers - judging from the medallions that glinted blindly in the sun's rays - huddled behind the two.

"Master!" Called Ragnar, relief flooding the air as the boys all saw the clean state of Jaskier. His hair was cut short, to a degree Gerring had never before seen, and although he held himself with the weight of a man wary of his ribs, his grin was feral and bright as ever.

"What happened?"

"Have you taken a Swallow?"

"How's your chest?"

There was a diluge of questions, near deafening under the roar of them.

"Is that _Quenisve?"_ Letho barked, putting an instantaneous end to all other queries.

Jaskier's head tilted indulgently. "Indeed, Letho. I am well, I assure. My chest has healed all but for my ribs. The mage has been defeated and," he gestured sheepishly behind himself, to the group of unknowns. "It appears we are bolstered in number."

"Who are you all?" Lanir squinted impishly, as impulsive and irresponsible as ever.

"We're very real," came the familiar lustrous cadence of Ivar's voice. Gerring sniffed the air for his scent, finding it to be very real, and listened for his _thump-thump-thud_ heartbeat. It matched up.

"Ivar," he boomed, already striding forth with opened arms. "Good to see you. We thought you dead, brother."

"I very well may have been," agreed the man. "Somewhat. I have only been revived now that my friends and I have been released from the mage's clutches."

Gerring wrapped him up in a hug, feeling the bones of his ribs and hips under his tunic. From a lone glance it was evident the man, and the others, were gaunt - cheekbones drawn, skin pale and almost waxen. Had they not been stood before them breathing and living, it was possible he could've mistook them for corpses.

In his peripheral, he saw Letho and the Wolf both approach Jaskier, exchanging quick words before their Grandmaster cleared his throat loudly. The boys fell silent as Jaskier turned to the unknown witchers.

"Introduce yourselves." He badgered.

"'Eyo," said a man with braided blond hair. "I'm Merten. Manticore witcher."

The Manticore witchers had been extinct for centuries. Gerring hadn't seen one in hundreds of years before then. It was a shock to find one here: to think Stregobor had been collecting witchers like some sort of petmaster. _Disgusting_.

"Stealing my thunder, Merty!" Crowed one, salt and pepper moustache twitching. His bald head shone in the sun. "Stefan the Crane, at your service!"

"Griffin witcher," said a quaint blonde haired woman. She was easily the shortest of the bunch, this fact made even moreso noticeable with how she stood next to a man that had to be well past six foot. "Annaliese. It is an honor to meet all of you."

"Ivo of Belhaven," grunted the giant, large brown pelt thrown over his back. Even thin and lanky from malnourishment he towered as if he was made from mountains. When decked with muscle he would be a fitting rival for Letho's stature. "Bear."

"I'm Dragonfly," smiled the second female. She too was blonde, although unlike the Griffin's plaits, her hair was shaved close to the scalp, a fluffy fringe all that remained. "Cat witcher."

"Aiden," grinned a thin but tall male. His brown hair glittered a near auburn in the sunlight and his lone eye was frighteningly stark. "Also a Cat. Nice to meet you all."

"And I'd hope you all know who I am," snickered Ivar.

There was a stunted pause, everyone taking a moment to stare.

"Well," Jaskier brokered the tide. "I don't know about you all, but I am _starving."_

Pietr grinned. "Does this mean we're getting an infamous Ivar stew? Thank the gods, it was only a matter of time before Gerring poisoned us!"

"Oi!" He barked, diving for the brat. The scamp had the gall to hide behind Geralt, giggling like a babe.

"Don't put any milk in it," chimed Jaskier, mocking. Gerring would've blushed had his slow pulse allowed.

"You didn't find out you're lactose intolerant until a few months ago!"

One of the Cats, Aiden, tilted his head. "How'd you manage that?"

It was Jaskier's turn to splutter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Berengar was in the 1st witcher game, in this he forked over the directions to Gorthur Gvaed to Nilfgaard and led the army through the Tir Tochair mountains... The Crane's Butcher is that guy that contracted Julian to deal with a wraith of a Crane witcher he and his mates killed.


	24. be weary, my dear, the eyes are always watching, plotting, planning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> serrit did it again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: swearing, mention/referenced prostitution, injury, betrayal, scheming, moderate violence (for a witcher fic, let's be real), hatred, strong emotions, manipulation, referenced capture and imprisonment, sexual themes, implied polyamory,

Geralt snuggled close to Jaskier, being comfortably cushioned by one of the plush couches in the Vipers' den. They'd relocated here after standing out in the courtyard for too long, when the gaunt witchers fresh from captivity had begun to shiver.

"Can't believe this," chittered one of the boys. The Wolf was moderately ashamed to say he still didn't know all of their faces after being stuck in a cell with them for a few hours and then a bubble dimension for another one. In his excuse, they hadn't been introducing themselves. "What was it like being a Queen?"

Turned out, one of the Cats, Dragonfly, had been Queen of Gemmeria back in the sixteen hundreds. Geralt, who had never really been invested in politics, hadn't known her by first glance but now that the younger Vipers were fawning over her he thought he remembered talk of her. He heard she'd been assassinated.

"Boring," waved off the woman, the man that Geralt was half-sure was Lambert's _Aiden_ curled up with her. They'd pilfered most of the den's blankets, having claimed them for their chosen couch - which was one of five. The Manticore had nestled in the gap between them and the armrest and Merten was currently leaning over it to chat with the next couch's inhabitants: Ragnar, Kolgrim and Stefan.

The Wolf didn't really mind sitting here. He was content so long as Jaskier was. And he currently was, buried under one of Geralt's arms, nose stuck in his neck as he just _breathed._ Geralt couldn't blame him, and most certainly would not stop him; they'd all been startled by the events, by Stregobor's sudden appearance and the whirlwind of events. If Jaskier wasn't frazzled he would've been worried.

"You alright?" He murmured lowly, idly watching as Letho made a few choice gestures whilst talking to the Bear, the Griffin watching on with a blank expression.

"I will be," said Jaskier, taking one final sniff before pulling back. He remained in Geralt's one-armed hug but the loss of him draped over his collarbone was chilling. Gorthur Gvaed was like Kaer Morhen, managing to be cold even in summer.

"Ciri is having her private party in a few days," he broached, unsure if Jaskier would even want to think about parties after what he'd been through. "She, uh, invited you."

Jaskier hummed, eyes flickering around the room. His gaze did not linger, though Geralt knew it didn't need to for him to pick up on the smaller details. His Viper took a small sniff of the air and made a low noise of contentment.

"That's nice. I take it I need my own present this time around?"

"You don't need to," he muttered.

"Ah, but I will," Jaskier grinned crookedly. His eyes fell on the Cat and Geralt followed, blinking at the auburn haired man who seemed happy to sit and listen as Dragonfly boasted to the younger boys. "Just not for her. Our dear Mr Prickles will be there, won't he?"

Geralt snorted, understanding what was happening. "Yes."

"Brilliant," nodded the older man. "We'll need to match again, but we'll see if I have any suitable dresses. Ah-"

His eyes fell. Geralt nudged him bodily, curling his arm tighter as he nuzzled his cheek. "What's wrong?"

"Do you," the man pursed his lips. The Wolf wanted nothing more than to kiss him. "Do you still want to live with me? Twenty-Eight is gone, it'll take a while to find somewhere else..."

"I don't mind," he rumbled, hoping to reassure. "I'd follow you anywhere."

"Geralt," laughed Jaskier, seeming quite shocked at the declaration. Geralt didn't know what he had to be shocked at. Jaskier blinked at him for a moment before a soft smile slipped over his lips. The sight wasn't one Geralt would be forgetting anytime soon. It made his heart warm. "Very well. I'll start the hunt but we'll be here for a while."

"I'm used to cold keeps," he smirked.

His Viper nuzzled him back, their noses bopping once. "Gvaed isn't that cold, brat."

"Really?" He shivered for comedic effect, even if he was satisfactorily warm. The fire blazing in the hearth was calming, heating the room and brightening it at the same time. "But my old bones, oh they ache."

Jaskier snorted, pulling away with a wink. "Well, we have the potions room to rebuild. I'm sure you'll be of use there. Can't be cold when you're busy."

Geralt huffed good-naturedly as Jaskier rocked to his feet, offering his leg a quiet wince.

"Alright," Jas called, gathering all attention to him. Silence fell like a cloak, obedience drilled into Gvaed's walls as every cat slitted (and two normal) eye turned to him. "There's a lot to catch up on, namely where you all will stay."

This was directed at the new witchers, who shifted at the topic. Ivar opened his mouth but Jaskier waved him off.

"You're all welcome to stay here for as long as you like." He declared. "It's not as if we're in shortage of rooms. Though, should you wish to find somewhere else, that's your choice."

"So we could stay here for years and you wouldn't kick us out?" Questioned Dragonfly, testing the waters.

"Even if you became a wallflower like Gerring, you'd still be welcome," smirked Jaskier, ignoring the other man's low complaint. "We are hospitable people; you are witchers, we are witchers. Kin stick together."

The group seemed to relax at that, nods spreading around. Geralt watched, intrigued at how the Vipers sat in silence compared to their earlier noise.

"But," the room froze at the change in tone. Jaskier let his gaze roll from each new witcher, including Ivar. His tone was dark. "Should anyone betray us, I will kill you."

"Betray?" Squeaked Merten, sounding horrified.

"We would never, Grandmaster," announced the Griffin, Annaliese. There was no lie in her words, her scent remained steady. "We are extremely grateful for your kindness and to repay you in such a way would be despicable."

Jaskier's amber gaze lingered on her before he nodded. A smirk split the gloomy atmosphere. "A great period of time has passed from when you were first captured to now."

"I was the last, in the sixteen-hundreds," agreed Dragonfly. "Ivar was in the cells the longest."

"It is 2020," said the Grandmaster Viper, remaining still in the middle of the room as the newcomers stilled. The Cats shuffled closer together, the Griffin shaking until the Bear placed a hand on her thigh. Ivar closed his eye and tilted his head into shadow. The Manticore thinned his lips, eyes shuttered and the Crane frowned.

"The Path is no longer walked. Monsters exist only in far corners of the Continent where no human steps and we are but faerie tales. Presently, we are part of the secret non-human community nicknamed the Ancients. We have bars and shops and towns filled with elves, werewolves and even higher vampires. We lurk in the shadows, and you will be expected to as well."

"That won't be a problem," said the Crane, curling his moustache with his fingers. "The humans practically ignored us hundreds of years ago. What's changed?"

Jaskier hummed. "Technology - we'll acquaint you all with it. Tomorrow Letho and I will go out to his bar, you are welcome to join us. Ragnar and Tarviel, if you are free, will get our guests phones. Yes?"

Letho grunted an agreement as Tarviel, one of the kids laying atop the blue haired one, grinned. Ragnar sighed but nodded along.

"Good," the room smelt like buttercups. Jaskier was pleased. "Whilst out we'll introduce you to forms of transport and other things. Have I missed anything?"

"Will we get our own weapons? How do we get money?" Aiden chirped, blanket shucked high as if that could protect him from any questions that went too far.

"You'll get jobs if you want money," informed Jaskier. "Although, for so long as you all are here consider your expenses covered. Weapons... As long as no one gets their throats slit I don't see why you should be depraved. There are countless ones in the armoury, take your pick after consulting Gerring or me."

"Master," growled Letho. Jaskier's eyes flicked to him, a silent conversation being held.

Jaskier waved him off. Letho nodded and fell silent, Alice sitting beside him awkwardly.

"You too are also welcome to stay for as long as you like," Jaskier directed this to the elf. She beamed up at him. Then, to the room at large: "Good?"

The Vipers all nodded. Geralt watched the ripple-effect, likening it to a wave crashing down and knocking everyone's heads at the same time. It was amusing.

"Good. If you have any questions ask someone other than Lanir."

"Excuse me," gaped the blue haired boy. "I'm full of sense, you know!"

"What sense?" Asked the ginger beside him, Pietr.

"Danger sense?" Added Tarviel.

"Stupid sense?" Auckes joined in.

"Shut up!" Lanir hissed, springing out of his lazy flop on the furs. "I'll show you stupid sense."

With that, he lunged for the man, Auckes standing up for the challenge. The two ended up wrestling on the floor, rocking back and forth in the centre of the couch circle. Jaskier ignored them, gesturing for Geralt and Letho to follow as he stalked out of the room.

When they were in the kitchens, a decent distance away from the den that no one would hear them over the current brawl's racket, Jaskier stopped. His eyes shone in the dim torchlight, expression serious. "Who is Egan?"

Geralt was left blank. Letho raised his brow.

"Auckes went by it during the war," he informed. "One of his many infiltration personas. General Egan McCarvth, the best Nilfgaardian soldier and the first to do fuck all whilst on duty."

The last was said with mirth, an evident inside joke being shared. Geralt was keen on the uptick to Jaskier's lips, left slightly saddened when it disappeared quickly.

"Hmm. Remind me, when two different names have that straight dash between them, it means its the same person, correct?"

The larger Viper shrugged, the action a leisurely roll of his shoulders. "Sure, in books. What's happened?"

"I had a dream," Jaskier said, then frowned deeply. "No. It was more of a vision in how it was to be taken seriously."

"What was it about?" Geralt dared ask.

Jaskier's eyes flashed. "Nothing important. I seen names of people who had... affected me in the past. From old contractors who'd turned against me to Stregobor."

"You remembered their names?" Letho huffed, pulling out of their closed triangle to meander over to a metal box. He opened it and pulled out a bagged loaf, offering a slice to Geralt who shook his head.

"Of course," Jaskier snapped, not at all troubled by his Viper wandering about buttering himself a slice of bread. Letho dipped into the pantry, returning with a jar of jam which he set on the countertop with an eerie amount of grace considering his size. "That's not the point. I saw Serrit's name with the dash and then Egan."

"Were the others separated by this dash?" Letho tried, digging a spoon into the glass jar and dolloping a large blob of what smelt like strawberry jam on his bread. The spoon clattered into the sink, the butter knife being used to spread the jam evenly until it too joined the posse in the sink.

Geralt bit his tongue at the noise, eyes narrowed.

"No," growled Jaskier. "Which is why I'm speaking of it. I thought it was one of his aliases but what if it meant Serrit wasn't alone?"

The bald scoffed, staring down at his bread. "Auckes would never."

Jaskier shifted. Letho turned.

Geralt felt as if he was intruding. He amped up the glare, hoping to break the tension.

"Calm your mutt," hissed the kingslayer. "I'll look into it," he said finally. "See if I can find anything from back then or now. But you know as well as I do..."

"The documents were burnt," Jaskier grumped. "I know."

"Burnt?" Geralt echoed, working up the courage to speak in the pregnant pause. "Why?"

"It wasn't on purpose," snarled Letho, a sharp edge to his voice. "Some General got the drop on us and our caravan got wrecked. Where else were we supposed to hold documents?"

"To be fair," interjected Jas. "I didn't think subspace pockets could burn."

Letho snorted, munching at his snack. Geralt grunted.

"Is that all?" He huffed, unsure as to why he'd been dragged along too.

"Ah, no. I didn't mean to talk about that. We have a dopplegänger situation."

"Oh?" Letho leaned forwards.

Geralt copied. "Who?"

"I only know of one: Ivo has a copy running about in the outside world."

"Fuck," groaned Letho. "Thought you'd found another."

Blinking at him, Geralt frowned. "You knew?"

"Well I figured," glared the man. "I saw him a few months back. Trust me, it was a shock to find he'd been in a cell since the thirteenth century."

Accepting that, Geralt looked to Jaskier, who was staring at a chipped tile with something short of vehemence. "What are we going to do about them?"

"When Letho and I introduce the newbies to his bar, I thought you'd like to request a witcher for a contract." Jaskier grinned.

"There's contracts?" He repeated dumbly.

"My bar's in an Ancient section of a city, Wolf," Letho snorted. "There's an office building two rows down, non-humans post contracts on the noticeboard in there."

"And people pick them up?"

"Yeah, still a few witchers out there. Doppler Ivo's the most continuous collector though."

"I'm amazed they managed to stick with the whole witchering thing," mused Jaskier, leaning back against the countertop's edge. "Most dopplers just take the skin and move on."

Geralt put his hands on his hips. "Do we know of any other Bears?"

"Nah, bunch of reclusive fucks," grunted Letho, scar shining in the lighting. "Only witchers I know outside of our snakes are the Wolfie brothers."

The White Wolf wasn't too sure on how to feel about the nickname. He let it drop.

"Most are long dead," agreed Jaskier.

"This contract," Letho prompted, looking quite piqued.

"Why, if I didn't know, I might just think you were interested," Jaskier purred, slinking closer to the man. He swirled a finger around his wrist, pushing up against Letho's firm stomach with thick pupils. Jas leaned up, tugging the man down and positively _whispered_ his name, "Hmm, Letho?"

Letho rumbled deep in his throat, bending down easily. His pupils, too, were thick. Geralt watched, more interested than he should have been, as the two moved in for a kiss. Centimetres away, the bald froze, gleaming amber eyes flicking up to stare at Geralt. Jaskier started, jerking back and turning to the Wolf witcher as if he'd forgotten he was there.

"Ah," Jas cleared his throat. "Well, um."

"What made you stop?" Geralt asked coyly, he made a point of trailing his hand further south as he smirked. Letho barked a laugh.

"Fucking hell, don't know how you get all the good ones, Jask."

"They're attracted to me," Jaskier simpered. Letho ducked down for a quick peck before returning to what was left of his snack.

There was a pause where Jaskier grinned proudly, Geralt caught in a tumult of emotions that were mainly positive. He pulled his two-track mind back and shoved the train down a different route.

"The contract," he said.

"Yes! I'll write it up later," Jaskier nodded. "Something simple, a wraith or something. All you'll need to do is post it. Its address will be for the bar so we'll wait there."

"And kidnap the asshole?" Letho spoke, licking jam from his fingers. "Nice plan, if we don't get beheaded."

"We could bring Alice in, have her knock him out?"

"Can she do that?" Geralt questioned. "I thought she was a healer?"

"She is," said Letho, not sounding impressed.

"Healers are feisty," Jaskier argued before sighing. "Okay. Fine. I'll meet him and portal him when we shake hands."

"And if you don't?" Geralt felt compelled to push onwards.

"I'll figure something out," said Jas.

"You're portalling him here? Where a dozen witchers could stumble upon your little torture session?"

Jaskier rolled his eyes. "Don't be daft, Letho. Most of the boys are going home tonight, you know that. By breakfast we'll have less than half our number. Ragnar and Tar will leave then and Pietr and Lanir will follow. It'll just be us."

"And the others."

"You're no fun. I'll portal him to a safehouse and see what gold I find."

Geralt wasn't sure how he felt about that. Both Vipers looked at him.

"Never broken a few fingers for information, Wolf?" Letho sneered.

Jaskier flapped at his neck, "Hush, Letho. I'll be breaking more than a few fingers."

They both snickered. Geralt rubbed at his eyes, wondering if this was real.

"That it?" He asked again.

"Hmm." There went another silent conversation, Letho's sharp eyes getting lost in Jaskier's before they blinked themselves out of it. "Yes, I do believe so. You any good at making hot chocolate, brat?"

"I'm not a brat," he replied, blinking. "Why hot chocolate?"

"We've been in here for over five minutes," answered Letho, deadpan as Jaskier snickered quietly. "If we don't come back with something Gerring might try to stab us and accuse us of loitering."

"Or fucking," mused Jas. "Although I'd like to think he knows me better than that."

"You were awfully close to it, earlier," Geralt commented, grinning.

Jaskier rolled his eyes at him. "Go find the marshmallows, Wolf."

"I don't know where they are," he complained.

"That's why I said _find_ them, brat."

In Serrit's opinion, he had determination stronger than steel, ambition thicker than the sludge of the potions, ideals tougher than leather.

He was a strong man; sly and cunning, possessing all the traits of a good Viper. He was no Letho, no Kingslayer, but he didn't want to be Letho - a bald, arrogant asshole that liked to lick Jaskier's more than anybody else's. Serrit was no fool, a coward perhaps but not an idiot. Were he one, he would've died in the Black War, would've couped during those three harsh years. But he hadn't because he knew how to plan, how to wait, how to lie and manipulate to get what he wanted.

Gerring was an issue. The man had wormed his way in and eaten the tomato plant's leaves like the slug he was. The old bastard had lied, played a game Serrit thought he alone played in the walls of Gorthur Gvaed and now... Now Serrit needed to be cautious, needed to get away as soon as possible, fall into hiding before his head fell from his neck. Gerring would tell Jaskier, sooner rather than later, and Serrit knew his time was coming to an end.

So he sat through the hot chocolate and the marshmallows, huddled on the furs that lined the floor, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, mug growing cold in his hands. Throughout the night, he slumped, eyes darting about the new faces and the old ones that wouldn't look his way. Betrayal ran deep throughout their circle, Serrit knew well if he were to say anything it would be brushed off - even if he tried to bring up Gerring's words, which had smelt so true, _he_ would be branded as a liar and nothing would come of the older man.

Fucking hypocrites, the lot of them.

Sleep didn't come and if it did pull him under, someone shifted right at that moment and he startled back awake. The newly freed witchers barely moved in their sleep, having slumped where they were, still and quiet as bears in bee territory. Moving, though, was no problem for the others - everyone having stayed up chatting and then watching a movie with the projector resulted in them all flopped over the couches and the floor. It was the youngest three mainly wriggling about, snuffling and pushing at each other between various bouts of consciousness. With everyone here, everyone asleep, he could pull something, but he knew only half of their number were truly asleep. Gerring, for one, was certainly still awake, no matter how softly he breathed. He wouldn't put it past the Cats or the Bear to still be awake either; he'd seen how they'd twitched earlier.

If the sun crested the horizon, it was impossible to tell. Inside the den there was no windows, nothing to lead to the outside world. It was the same for most of Gvaed, only the kitchens and a few other rooms having windows. Even then, the boarded kitchen window gaped into a small courtyard (barely big enough to fit a kikimora) that was only accessible if one wanted to jump through that window and gape up at the mountain cavern's peaks (and still there was no sunlight). Gorthur Gvaed was a donjon, built into the side of the mountains, literally one with them. The only places that real sunlight graced was the main courtyard, the highest outside turrets and the few bedrooms that were situated towards the front of the keep.

In short, the place was miserable. Serrit had no idea how Jaskier or Gerring, or even Ivar, could live here for a prolonged time. The sheer weight and coldness of the place would kill him before he could say his parting vows. Maybe they were already dead and he was entertaining killing a ghost. Shame, he had no spectre oil.

Awareness came back to a few at an hour that felt ungodly, Kolgrim kicking at Auckes and murmuring to Ilester about 'gonna miss the tournament, c'mon' which Serrit assumed had to do with his game console, the man's latest addiction. He didn't interrupt, didn't speak, just watched as the three ruffled themselves to awareness and Auckes nudged Letho awake to say a quick bye.

Serrit was mildly annoyed they'd woken Letho, because the brute being awake made things so much harder.

Next was Tarviel, his phone chirping and waking up half the group. The obnoxious pop song spurred a round of groans that had most kicking out at him stupidly (because he was on the floor and they were nowhere near him) or turning on their sides under the blankets they'd dragged out from the closet. It took the brat an unholy amount of time to actually wake up and turn the alarm off, nearly shitting himself when he spied the phone screen's clock. He'd shaken Pietr awake and together they'd dragged Lanir off. Tarviel offered a quick wave to everyone awake as they portalled out, not daring to speak after having seen Jaskier was still asleep.

Sometimes he wondered how he'd ended up here, stuck with a bunch of fools who kissed up to a bastard that should've died hundreds of years ago. What was worse was that Letho could've been useful, could've had a part as Serrit's SIC or TIC. But no, the literal mountain of a mutant just had to fall into Jaskier's hand, kept there by the proposal of falling into his pants whenever they met up. It was disgusting, not to say Serrit was homophobic, but he kinda was. Why fuck a man when you could fuck a slutty whore or charm a little bitch that doesn't know better? The bitch was usually free, too.

 _Doesn't matter,_ he consoled himself, feigning a dozing sleep as the Wolf woke. The white haired fucker didn't even glance around the room before bending to nuzzle Jaskier's neck. Letho sat awake too, probably only kept in place by the fact Jaskier was strewn over his lap like a toy doll. Serrit would pay good coin to see the bald push Jaskier off his lap and onto the floor had he not known it was for naught. Fucking Kingslayer was too loyal.

He wondered if he'd still be loyal when Jaskier was dead. The thought made him stifle a grin, quickly burying himself beneath his blanket as the others slowly got up. Ragnar sat up, having stirred when Tar's alarm went off, and quietly decreed he was making breakfast. The Cats offered to help and the medic agreed, bringing Gerring in tow with a murmured, 'we'll teach you how to fry sausages yet, you coot'.

"Wolf," hissed Letho, three minutes later. The Crane had wandered off to shower, lugging the Manticore in tow. Ivar Evil-Eye had scurried after them, declaring a sauna was better for this time of day and Alice had piped up and followed. Serrit didn't agree but then, he didn't really care. As long as the room was mostly empty, that was all he needed, then he could make his move and leave. "We should get a headstart and post the contract."

"I thought we were doing it later?" Asked the man, fingers swirling patterns onto Jaskier's ankles. The old bastard was still out and Serrit was beginning to wonder if someone had beaten him to it.

"They check the board during lunch," responded the bald, sounding softer than he normally did. Serrit put it down to him having to whisper over the boss's head. "I can portal us to my bar and we can post it now, rather than having to wait. If we go now they would see it at lunch, saving us a day of waiting."

"Alright," grunted the Wolf and then the two of them went about the task of manoeuvring Jaskier without waking him. Eventually, after a few hushed moments, they both stood up and left Jaskier on the couch, blanket tucked around his waist. They shared a look, the Wolf sparing a moment to scruff at his stubble and run his fingers through his hair before Letho placed a hand on the other's bicep and portalled them to his bar.

Serrit lay beside the fireplace, keenly aware it was only him, a sleeping Griffin and a dozing Bear left in the room aside from Jaskier - who had to be exhausted to not have woken after his two fuckboys jostled him so much. Slowly, he sat up, testing the waters and making sure the two other witchers were still asleep. When he was satisfied they were, he rolled to his feet, thumbing the ring he'd kept in his pocket for this very occasion.

Jaskier lay on his left side, a cushion at his head and one pillowing his right knee. He was the image of exhaustion, yet as Serrit stood over him, pushing the ring onto his own finger, he stirred.

The Grandmaster's eyes fluttered, Serrit's stomach tightening as he blinked up at him.

"M'ning?" His elder yawned, propping himself up on his left elbow, facing Serrit. The man batted at the blanket, pushing the cushion at his knee away as he moved.

"Morning," he whispered back, a new plan already slotting into place. "Ragnar's cooking breakfast."

"W'as he makin'?" Asked Jaskier, arms rising as he stretched. Serrit entertained the brief thought of grabbing his wrist there and then and jabbing the ring's spike into his vein before dismissing it. He needed the man relaxed, couldn't have him shouting and startling the others.

"A fry, I think," he spoke quietly, wary of waking the two other witchers. Jaskier spied them and kept his volume down, nodding sleepily.

 _Now or never,_ he thought.

Jaskier made to get up, still looking knackered. Serrit placed his left hand on his bent knee, making the man raise an eyebrow up at him. "Listen," he started softly. "I'm sorry."

He truly was. He hadn't thought it would come to poison. He almost felt bad for Ragnar's ensuing fit over why the man wouldn't be able to keep anything down.

The Grandmaster, of course, misunderstood. His sleep-loose smile beamed up at him.

"Don't worry 'bout it, kiddo," he rocked forward, sitting up correctly, feet touching the floor. "Ev'rybody makes mistakes."

Serrit seized the moment. He made a show of wavering, hesitancy lining his words. "C- Can I hug you?"

"C'mere," Jaskier opened his arms wide without a second's thought. Serrit stooped over him, pulling the man into a tight hug. "All's well that ends well, am I right?"

He chuckled in the older man's neck, lingering a moment in the uncaring warmth of it before he thumbed the ring and drove the poison-slick thorn into the uncovered skin where his shirt was rucked up due to the hug. Serrit covered the pain with one harsh squeeze to the man's chest, knowing his ribs were sensitive, as he thumbed the ring to retract the thorn. Jaskier sucked in a breath but was grinning when they broke apart.

"Yeah," Serrit agreed, clutching to Jaskier's arm as the man stood. If he found it odd, there was no time for Jaskier to question him as his eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled.

Poised and ready, Serrit gripped him, pushing the man back onto the couch and shucking the blanket back over him. He had a moment to sneer down at him in victory before an enraged roar echoed in the room and the Bear witcher tackled him.


	25. not immortal but damn if poison will kill us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i swear we're getting happy times after this but right now, serrit is getting what he deserves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: swearing, graphic violence, emetophobia warnings, injury, blood, threatening behaviour and language, torture themes,

Ivo hadn't slept. He became immensely glad for this when it allowed him to immediately launch at the bastard after he'd done something to Jaskier. He'd dozed, yes - that sleep that wasn't sleep because your eyes were just closed and you felt soft and warm but if you needed to open your eyes in an instant you could.

He'd survived the Path this way, when he wasn't meditating in the middle of nowhere, and trust it to be the only time he'd actually fallen asleep in an inn for him to be captured by the mage. Annaliese said it was probably paranoia. Ivo didn't care.

In the present, he smashed his fist into the black haired man's nose and snarled at the blood that dripped to the stone floor. He could see how, in his peripheral, Annaliese had flocked to Jaskier so he left her be, trusting her to keep an eye on the Grandmaster more than he trusted himself to not kill the whoreson in front of him. It was almost funny how the Viper had thought he'd be able to get away with hurting their saviour right in front of them.

A few Vipers skittered into the doorway, of no hinderance to Ivo's bone breaking swings as he rained down on the hissing snake. The guy, possibly called Serrit, tried for a few jabs, aiming for his ribs, but Ivo shut him down quickly, ending the barrage with the Viper's jaw bouncing off the floor as Ivo took position over his back, wrists crossed behind his back and clutched in Ivo's firm grip.

"What happened?" Breathed the man with the moustache. Ragnar. He looked concerned, but not for the man under Ivo, but Jaskier, strewn over the couch and still not awake after all the noise.

"He did something," Annaliese reported dutifully, flicking her fingers down to Serrit, who'd given up the struggle after Ivo snapped his wrist. The Griffin had her other hand curled around the Grandmaster's neck, checking for a pulse. When she found one she breathed a relieved breath and focused on rolling him onto his side in case he started vomiting or something.

"You bastard," growled the older man with greying hair and sharp eyes. Gerring of Kharkiv. "I should've knocked this out of you the moment we got back."

"What did he do?" Ragnar broke over, now hovering above Jaskier, hurriedly checking his eyes. Whatever was to be seen made Annaliese flinch back and the Viper's medic swear. The man's gleaming amber-green eyes shot up to glare at Serrit. "Where's the poison?"

Serrit wheezed a laugh, casually spitting out a tooth. The stench of his blood made Ivo growl, lifting him up by the nape of his neck with his free hand.

"Answer him," he threatened, voice low and gravelly as he spat in his ear.

"Fuck you," gasped the traitor. Ivo slammed his face into the floor, noting how the blood almost created an imprint. His nose was broken and a few more teeth joined the pile. Pulling his head back by his nape again, the Bear cast his gaze over the cut on his eyebrow and the bleeding lip and thrust him down again for another face-smash.

"Speak now?" He drawled, more than proficient in the ways of violence.

The Viper coughed, spluttering blood. It ran through the cracks in the stone, staining his presence there. "Did the better thing."

"When did poisoning my son become the better thing?" Ivar demanded, striding into the room, towel wrapped around his waist. Merten and Stefan stepped in after him, both wearing the same. They'd evidently been summoned by the shouts and had deemed dressing to take too long.

"When he should've died nine hundred years ago!" Screeched the man, spittle mixing with blood as he protested. His anger was poignant, all earlier satisfaction gone as he struggled for breath under the weight of Ivo. "That bastard led us to war without another thought for us! He put our lives on the line without asking us-"

"Don't lie to our faces," Ragnar snarled. "He asked each of us to join, gave us an option. You joined us of your own volition."

"Since when is _die or fight_ a choice?" Serrit screamed. Alice sprinted into the room, dressed in a long breezy dress, and immediately fell to Jaskier's side, hands glowing. An elven healer, then.

"That gives you no excuse to kill him!"

Serrit started laughing, a deep bone-shaking cackle that Ivo didn't much like. He thumped the whoreson's head back into the stone, practically hearing his brain slosh about in that empty space he called his mind. The cackle petered off, a strange choking starting up. Ivo snorted at him.

"Shut it, fish," he growled. "I'm not even half crushing you."

"What poison did you use?" Dragonfly huffed, the two Cats lurking in the back of the room.

"Ain't f'ckin-" Ivo cut the shit out with a large crack. His other wrist snapped, nothing more than putty in his hands. "Won't work."

"One of you, go get a Golden Oriole," Ragnar ordered, checking Jaskier's eyes again before stilling. The elf winced quietly, the green of her hands failing. It went unspoken her healing wasn't working. Strong poison then. They needed to deal with it before it spread all throughout his system.

"We don't have any," Ivar cursed, loudly. "Quick, we need to-"

There was a flush of magic that had their medallions vibrating. The Wolf and the bald Viper burst into the room, nearly barrelling over those by the door.

"What's happened?"

Letho's bar was one of those old joints that didn't give a damn about how they looked and still managed to look cleaner than just about everywhere else. Where most bars made active strides to renovate and upkeep the upholstery, this large building had evidently been built in the mid-nineteen fifties and made no secret of that fact.

The wood of the serving counter was dark and rich, plated with some sort of soft red velvet that was a nice contrast to the wood. Dark purple cushioned barstools sat around it, a meek six compared to the counter being well over six foot long.

In the middle of the room sat over a dozen circular tables, rickety looking chairs huddled around them. To the far back of the room was a pool table, roughened up to a point where it looked darker and the balls looked a little scuffed but that was the full extent of its wear.

Along the edges of the room sat booths, soft cushioned looking things that Geralt was sure Letho could easily slide into. The tinted glass that faced onto the street glittered in the sunlight, casting beaming coloured rays onto the display bottles at the back of the bar, lines up with the shot cups and wine glasses.

"Nice place," he said once his empty stomach had stopped threatening to spit up the previous night's hot chocolate. "Very... is it called 'retro' nowadays?"

"S'pose so," Letho grunted. "We try to keep it clean, which is usually made harder than you'd think when you get werewolves in clientele."

A guy by the bar waved, squinting at them. Letho nodded back, offering a sharp grin.

"You want anything, Wolf? Kerro does a good gin and tonic, does us a grand duty."

"I'm alright," he waved off, nodding to the man as he noted the scars running down his jaw. Werewolf attack, it looked like. "Us?" He echoed.

"Joint business," said the bald man. "Technically, Jask owns this."

"Jaskier does?" He repeated, quite surprised. Letho started making his way for the large wooden door so Geralt followed, stopping obligingly as the larger man paused to right some tables.

"We actually bought it for him. After the Path took a hit from all the monsters, he retreated into himself. Wouldn't barely come out of Gvaed so Ragnar and I reckoned he needed something else. So we got this place and tried to give it to him."

"I take it he didn't like it?"

"Yeah, made that clear. Refused to talk to us unless we sold it or made good use of the coin we'd spent. I took over it instead, since I didn't have my cottage back then."

Geralt nodded along, breathing in retched city air as soon as he stepped out the front door. The street was gloomy and generally not very nice looking, the shops around all looked like somewhere where even drunk humans would pass by. He supposed that was the cost to stop humans from ruining everything. All it took was one ill-timed use of magic and suddenly there were witch hunts; he knew, he'd watched them happen.

"When was this?"

"Fifties," Letho grunted, waving to a young woman walking down the near-empty street. She grinned at him, showing off sharp canines. "We got him the apartment sometime 'round the seventies. He only accepted it because we told him we'd betted he couldn't fix it up."

Geralt listened, silently comparing this Jaskier to the man who'd snapped and growled when Bloedzuiger acid chewed through his leg. It made sense, not everyone remained the same way. If Jaskier was walking around with the mental equivalence of nearly two thousand years he didn't doubt his personality would change over decades, mellowing out. "The bar survived the 2007 recession, then?"

"As if the humans losing everything means we will too. There was an Ancients recession in 2010 and we would've closed had Jask not pushed some money in. 'Course we cut staff, brought the boys in - Pietr's surprisingly good at waitering - but we would've been forced to close shop without him."

They strode down the blocks, winding through murky alleys for a shortcut. Finally, after having triple glanced at everything, they arrived outside a dingy looking tailors. Ragged skirts hung in the dingy near-brown window.

"Thought it was an office," he hummed.

"Inside it is, shit ton of stuff in there. C'mon." Letho pushed open the doors, Geralt sticking by his side as they walked down a long hallway filled with nothing but fresh, cool air. The tailors was evidently a cover as there was no shop, instead they were forced to follow the hallway until it branched out into a large indoor plaza. There was a lot of magic here, so much that Geralt's medallion couldn't stop buzzing, although that also could've been the sheer amount of non-humans parading about in here.

Lamps floated in the air, brightening the area. There was a soil row in the very centre of the plaza, a small tree growing there, oddly spindly branches scooping out. A bird rested on one, twittering down at a kitten meowing on the stone slabs around the soil pit. People hurried about the ring, going from shop to shop, of which there were many. Not even counting the specialised stores for dwarves and a few larger ones for some sort of giants, there were countless others. From cafés to clothing stores, there was everything, a posh looking tailors with a shoe store beside it, some sort of poster music store, even grocers and so much more. Geralt gawked at it for as long as Letho allowed them to linger in the hall entrance.

Inside it was huge, large tunnelling hallways branching out from three other places. There were no more stores down these but the complex branched upwards, countless floors spiralling above them, banners hung for different stores on the golden railings surrounding the pathways up high.

"Notice board's in the corner, see it?" Letho nudged him, pointing him towards a wooden stooping alcove, beside which was the aforementioned office building, small and near empty.

There was a few other notices on the board. One for a nekker infestation in the far out suburbs, in some deep underground facility. Geralt skimmed it, silently decreeing the pay of one hundred coins barely enough from the intense description. By the sound of it they had a large pack of at least twenty, maybe more, and definitely a Chieftain.

Geralt pulled out the note Jaskier had written in scrawling cursive, having been forced to rewrite it once after accidentally lapsing into old common. Letho had guffawed at it before Jaskier had threatened to break his foot. It probably would've been more threatening had they not kissed afterwards.

He pinned it to the wood with a few pins nestled in a small box connected to one of the legs. Letho grunted beside him, the White Wolf turning around in time to see the tree in the centre _move_. It shifted, lifting the meowing kitten up with a hand, giving Geralt a good look at its skull face. The spindly branches were, in fact, antlers.

"That's a leshen," he said, suddenly very startled.

"Yeah, how'd you think this magic is upheld? Guy lives here." Letho didn't seem bothered by it in the slightest, in fact, he almost looked amused as the leshen begun waving its thin tree branch arms around. "Let's go, before he starts singing."

"Singing?" Geralt echoed again.

"Oh, yeah, he's a bit odd," the Viper said. "Likes to sing creepy old lullabies to the elven kiddies. Real weird but they like it."

Shrugging, Geralt followed Letho out of there, faux-tailor shop's bell dinging behind them before they were stalking through the back alleys. A little slower than before but this time Geralt could enjoy the grand scenery of dumpster rats and trash bags in peace.

"I'll kill you if you hurt him," the Viper said suddenly. Geralt blinked, finding himself being crushed against a grimey brick wall.

Maybe not in peace, after all.

"I'd never, not willingly," he promised, meaning every word. The sincerity he wanted, needed, to convey choked him up and cast his words quietly into the air, left to hover between them.

"He really likes you, Wolf," hissed the other man. "But he's mine too."

Without thinking, he said, "Then we'll share, if he wants that."

Letho frowned at him. Geralt wanted to kick himself in the shins, thinking he'd messed up.

The Viper leaned back, the hand that had been fisting Geralt's shirt without his full knowledge loosening. "You mean that," he huffed, a small self-depreciating sound. "How can you mean that? You don't even know me."

"Jaskier does."

"You're a weird one," snuffed Letho. "I never understand how Jask finds people like you. He's a fucking shut-in yet he meets more people than I do working out here."

"Must be his charm," suggested Geralt, a teasing smirk slipping into place. Talking with Letho felt like talking to his brothers but with less of the awkwardness, less of that need to be responsible and watch out for them. Talking with Letho felt good, relieving. Maybe the same way talking with Jaskier felt, except he'd be down to fuck Jaskier if the other man so much as mewled. But then, Geralt hadn't wanted to fuck him immediately either. He'd heard about that, people not being able to love others until they knew them.

He stood in the drafty alley, Letho hulking not a metre away and made a decision.

"I'd like to get to know you better, Letho." He declared, offering out his hand. The bald snorted down at the sight, slapping his palm into his.

"Good to know, Wolf. Guess I need some blackmail on you, too." Letho's grin said most of that was humorous. Then, a flicker, hope brightening his cold eyes. "You're serious?"

"Wholly."

"Alright," the man nodded, slapping at his bicep in jest. "Have to leave Kerro with responsibility before we leave. Quickly."

They wormed their way out of the alleyways and made it back to the bar, slipping inside.

"We're goin' now, K. If a witcher comes 'round for a contract on wraiths text or call, yeah?"

Kerro raised an eyebrow, eyes flittering as he looked them up and down. It was clear he knew who they were but he shrugged anyway and offered a bright grin as he nodded.

"Good man," cheered Letho, hand finding its way back to Geralt's bicep. "Medallion: Gorthur Gvaed."

The scent of panic and blood rushed to greet them. Geralt barely managed to share a glance with Letho before they were both off, bolting down the foyer's corridor in an attempt to find the blood. They jumped into the den as if there was a wvyern on their tails, breath catching in Geralt's throat as he saw Jas flopped over the couch where they'd left him, Alice and Ragnar hovering worriedly, a furious Ivo digging his knees into a bloody Serrit's back.

"What happened?" He demanded, pushing aside the huddle of witchers crowded in the doorway to get to Jaskier. He smelt off, weak, sweaty. Geralt knew what was wrong before anyone said anything.

"He's been poisoned," little Alice spoke up, voice quivering as Serrit started up a chilling heckling laugh. "We-" her voice broke and she was forced to swallow, lips quivering. "We don't know what by."

Letho was stooped before Serrit in an instant, clutching Ivo's shoulder in thanks. Without a word the Second in Command grabbed the traitor by his hair and slammed his face into the already blood splattered stone. He kept this up until the man's face was more blood than anything else. No one moved to stop him.

"What did you give him," thundered the Viper, voice not even pitched right to have been a question. He wasn't playing games anymore, he was demanding.

Serrit spat a tooth out, the bloodied molar pinging off Letho's boots and joining the pile already littered around him. Geralt counted at least five slumped amongst the blood. His face met ground again before Letho sneered.

"Don't think he's learning," he said. "Why don't you teach him not to mess with what's ours, Wolf?"

Geralt was before the whoreson in a blink, not even realising what he was doing as he gripped Serrit and tugged him up from the floor, Ivo and Letho retreating a respectable distance. He clutched the bastard by his throat, tightening until the man's eyes bulged. Irritated and so, so angry, he grabbed the man's right arm and tugged it out of its socket.

The scream was music to his ears. Still, Jaskier did not stir, although he was breathing. Geralt realised what he was doing.

He realised, and lowered the man, letting his feet fall slat on the floor. Serrit blinked at him past his already swelling eyes and spat out another mouthful of blood. It painted his cheek. Geralt slammed his boot down on the man's foot, hauling him up with the hand still around his neck. Serrit couldn't find the air to scream as he choked, foot shattering underneath Geralt's administrations.

"What did you poison him with?" He roared, fingers digging into the disjointed socket and twisting the limb a little more as the man quivered. He'd hurt Jaskier, had poisoned him, hurt him, laughed at him.

His death would be very long and _very_ painful. Geralt was sure Letho would see to that.

The man must've been worse than an idiot, because he still didn't speak. Geralt gripped his hand and pushed the fingers back, listening to how they cracked as they broke. The ring caught his attention.

"Letho," he grunted. "Knife."

The bald appeared beside him, pushing a knife into his peripheral, brandishing it proudly. "Nice and blunt, just for our toy."

"Cut his fingers off," he ordered, glancing down to the ring to make sure the man understood.

"No, wai-" Serrit gurgled. His other arm scrabbled at Geralt's arm, scratching at him. Geralt stared at the blood and tightened his grip on his neck, cutting off everything. Letho grabbed his hand and sliced off the pinky first. Serrit fell limp.

"Pathetic," the Viper jeered, ripping the ring off his middle finger. It was brought to his nose where he sniffed. "Fuck. Smells like archespore and kikimore."

"Will his metabolism hold that?" Geralt asked, knowing very little of the Vipers immunities. He dropped Serrit, leaving his head to crack against the wet floor as the man fell in a heap.

"We'll dump him in the old Trial room," Gerring announced, striding forth to grab at one of Serrit's arms. He left the dislocated one for Ivo, who he offered a prim eyebrow raise before the Bear joined the hauling party with a grin. "Should keep him away until we can get down and finish the job."

"Will he allow that?" Aiden queried, head tilting towards Jaskier.

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," said Ivar with just as much righteous fury. "Will he be alright?"

Letho grunted, "His immunity is stronger than most. I'll grab him an Oriole from my place and we'll go from there."

Jaskier woke an hour later, eyes peeling open to a room full of witchers, an old movie playing on the projector. The noise made his head hurt, thumping as it was, but the familiar scent of his Wolf and Letho beside him, around him, made him feel better. He let his head loll on whoever's shoulder he was drooped on and peeled his eyes open with a bit of difficulty.

"Wha's goin' on?" He slurred, wriggling in Geralt's arms. His lower back gave a pang and he hissed, slumping in defeat. Except, when he stopped moving, the pain only grew. He whined, cutting off the soft murmur that had started in his ear and nearly shrieked in agony when a large hand brushed against where the pain radiated.

He gasped for what felt like years, breathing ragged; pants slow yet too shallow. Around him, the world swirled, colours blending, projector light flickering. Not too sure when he became limp on whoever's shoulder he was on, he rocked back, into a cool embrace.

A tea towel wrapped around what he guessed was a bag of ice pressed against where the pain pulsated from, drawing a relieved sigh from him. He opened his eyes, finding them sore, aching, dry, itchy. Geralt sat beside him, almost in front with how Jaskier had tilted and wiggled sideways to how people would normally sit. Right now though, he didn't really care about that, just enjoyed the gentle cool pressure at his back that was helping.

A weak head flop brought evidence that Letho was sitting behind him, holding the ice pack. Jaskier let the happy rumble in his throat loose and clumsily clutched Letho's big scarred hand in his.

"Better?" Asked a voice.

Jaskier looked to who'd spoken, Geralt, in front of him. Or beside him? Did that mean Letho was beside him too? But he was behind. Hmm. Letho usually liked Jaskier on top and so did Jaskier because sitting on the big man's lap was fun.

He giggled, still holding Letho's hand hostage as he reached forth with his other hand and procured one of Geralt's. His Wolf was looking at him with a soft look and he felt immense satisfaction, even as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

"Sleep, Jask," rumbled Letho, his not stolen hand rubbing up and down Jaskier's cold arm. A blanket was tugged around him, Jaskier nestling down into it with a hiss.

"He really is like a snake, huh?" Someone snickered. Jaskier almost wanted to know who it was to slap them because he wasn't _just like a snake_ he was a snake!

But he didn't do that. One, because he was really comfy. Two, because his eyes didn't like being open and wanted to be closed and it would be mean to open them when they didn't want to be.

Mainly because he was comfortable, though. Letho, for all his nice big muscles, was a really good pillow. The Wolf made a good ankle masseuse, too.

Unaware of what he was doing, Jaskier curled up on the couch, using his pilfered hands to tug his Wolf and Viper close as he dozed. He fell asleep to the soft murmuring of life: witchers talking and being happy. He dreamt of buttercups at bloom, a wolf and snake curled around a lone wilting flower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know geralt possibly went a bit ooc there but hey,,, he's emotional, for once.  
> and jas at the end is a different thing all together. :)
> 
> Lynge the singing leshen was for you x


	26. where, oh, where does my heart lie and play pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jas gets.... high? letho's got a heart. geralt's good at piggyback rides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: swearing, brief mention of substance abuse, implied/referred past injury, implied polyamory r/ship, out of character behaviour, 
> 
> yee

Jaskier had just settled down to a doze when Letho's phone chirped. The noise had everyone stiffening, eyes bouncing between the device on the arm of the chair and the Grandmaster curled up in a gaudy pink blanket. Thankfully, Jask made no sign of waking and everyone let out a held breath. Ivar and Ragnar gave him disbelieving looks as Gerring glared in warning.

Feeling as if he was on borrowed time, Letho grabbed the phone and stifled a curse. Kerro had texted him.

_Ur contracter is here :P_

He looked up, quickly analysing the situation. The Wolf stared at him, fingers clutching Jask's ankle over the cotton. His raised eyebrow asked the question he didn't ask aloud.

Letho nodded, firing off a quick confirmation to Kerro before he set the phone back on the arm of the chair. Gently, he eased out from under Jaskier, pushing a pillow under his head to make up for the loss of his thigh. The older man grumbled a little but calmed when Letho brushed a hand over his hair.

"What are you doing?" Merten whispered, gaze flickering between him and the pink bulge Jask had become. "Shouldn't you stay with him?"

"I have business," he hissed, shoving the phone into his pocket as he pulled himself up to his full height, stretching out his back. Geralt watched him so he nodded and said, "Call me if something happens. I'll deal with this."

"Be quick," the white haired man said, lips twitching in a smirk.

"I'll try," Letho answered, grabbing his medallion and silently ordering it to portal to his bar.

He stepped into the back, standing amongst the crates of beer and the spare shelves of glasses and stacks of chairs. Letho brushed down his shirt, clearing his throat as he pushed open the swing door into the bar. Kerro turned to him, offering a nod to the corner of the room.

"Thanks," he said, already around the bar and walking towards the fake witcher sitting in the corner. "Hey," he said as he pulled up to the corner booth. "Mind if I sit?"

"Go ahead," the doppler said, waving his hand in a very non-Ivo gesture. "Seen you have a wraith probelm."

The note was set between them, a barrier on the table. Letho didn't bother looking down - he knew what was there - so he simply nodded, shifting forward.

"We have a problem."

"We?" Repeated the doppler. "Surely not here. Your bar is very free of any ghosties."

Ghosties. Jask would like that nickname.

"I'm aware. It's between you and me." Letho informed him, hearing the faux-witchers leather shirt creak as he stiffened.

Doppler Ivo sneered. "Is that so? Decided to have a bit of fun? Is this a prank?"

"No. This is a question," he smirked and leaned in so he was nearly over the table. "Who are you?"

The man watched him, eyes weary and fluttery, those of a cornered animal that knew what was coming. "This man's been dead for centuries, the skin passed down through my family. My father himself saw the poor sod be incinerated by some crazy old man. We have done nothing wrong."

"I'm not saying you are, this is how your people live," Letho brushed off, seeing the doppler slouch. Their relief tinged the air minty. "But you're wearing my very alive friend's skin."

"A- Alive?" The doppler's eyes widened, the yellow never once wavering. Old, then, to be keeping up the skin if they were as shocked as they appeared. But with morales, hopefully. Their response was telling enough. Letho nodded grimly. "I see. I will change my face before the day's end, Master Witcher."

Letho looked at them and wondered. "Why did you continue on with the witchering?"

"Someone needs to do it," they said. Underneath that truth were more stories, emotions flickering behind the skin. Letho straightened his back and the words gushed out. "My family needs food, contracts bring money. We're trying to move closer to the Ancient centre."

"Oh?" He hummed, flagging down Kerro for two beers.

"We live on the outskirts of the non-human territory, sir." Confessed the doppler. "There's a family beside us... their daughter saw my son shifting. He's young, can barely control it. I am afraid that when the father returns from his tenure with the army he will do something."

"The girl made a show?" Letho frowned, accepting his drink with a grateful nod. The doppler thanked Kerro before sipping at their beverage.

"She screamed, was very shocked. Her mother came out and my wife had to make excuses. I do not think she accepted them."

Rubbing his fingers together, Letho had an idea pop into his head. It was stupid, foolish maybe but most of the worries could be quelled with a bit of surveillance.

"How good are you with physical labour? Magic?" He demanded.

"I.. Depending on the form, sir. My... My wife, they are good with magic; can brew lots of healing potions. They help when I come back from some contracts, help make the oils, too."

They needed a potion room restocked. Hundreds of potions could fit there. They'd need _at least_ a hundred before Jaskier or Gerring declared it fit for open use and the gods knew the boys went through more potions a week than most. Letho didn't know how they used them so quick or what exactly for but he also knew Kolgrim and Ilester had a bit of an experimental streak going on where they ushed through everything in their supplies.

A kid could lighten life around the place. Especially if they were used to the unnerving eyes of witchers. Maybe a brat would help the new witchers become more comfortable, help them restore their faith in others outside of witchers.

Letho couldn't believe he was thinking this.

"I've got something in mind," he said. "Give me a few days to run it past people but I think I have a job for you and your wife."

The doppler gawked. "I- What? Much thanks, sir witcher, but my son.. He can not be left at home, such would be cruel."

"Kid goes to school?" Gerring had a soft spot for kids. He could teach the kid, if need be.

"My wife homeschools him. I am sorry-"

"Your son could come along, if this..." Letho shut himself down. He was being idiotic. If Jask so much as heard of what he was doing there would be a boot up Letho's ass instantly. He stood, leaving his beer half-drunk. "Listen, I'll be in contact. Do you have a phone?"

"Yes, ah- I'll change my skin soon, yes. Here, my number-" The doppler scrambled to call off the series of numbers, standing to bow to Letho.

"You can keep being a witcher," he said decisively. "Just remember the reputation. How did you get a working medallion?"

Said medallion was hidden under the dopplers shirt. They pulled it out sheepishly and showed off a roughly molded bear that had seen better days. Letho could tell from the smell alone it was iron, uncharmed and not at all in working order. It was nothing more than scrap metal.

"Is not real," confirmed the doppler, offering a sheepish smile before they patted the necklace back under the protection of their shirt. "Thank you, Master Witcher. Much appreciated."

Letho grunted, holding his hand out for a shake. The doppler's hands were nothing like Ivo's. "Name's Letho. You come in here and get Kerro to call me if you ever need anything, got it?"

"Y- Yes, s- Letho!" The doppler was left frantically nodding. Letho tugged out his wallet and dropped some change on the table for the beers and a lot more even though he didn't need to.

"Get yourself something to eat. I'll be going."

"Thank you," bowed the doppler. Letho gave him a final glance before stepping out of the booth and waving to Kerro. His hand cupped his medallion and he called for home.

A squeak and a thrilled, "Letho!" met him when he rematerialised in the den room, unwilling to walk through the cold hallways. Suddenly, Jaskier was in his arms, legs curled around his waist as if the older man was an octopus. His Grandmaster giggled, arms wriggling languidly before latching onto Letho's collar and then wrapping around his neck.

Jaskier beamed up at him, squishing himself into Letho's chest in a hug, eyes glazed but bright, nothing like earlier's nearly bloodshot haze. He felt normal, smelt a little excited but that was the end of the differences. That and he'd jumped into Letho's arms with a room of non-Viper witchers watching.

"You feelin' better, Buttercup?" He rumbled, bouncing Jaskier in his grip like one would a child as the man snuffled at his neck. "How's your back?"

"All better! Back's good, good, good! Goodie good!" Chirped Jask, words muffled into his skin. The high pitched tone of glee was not to be missed though. He giggled, hiccuping once. Letho breathed in the scent of kin and turned to the others, still bouncing Jaskier.

"He's high," he noted, gaze skimming over the equal mix of surprised and amused expressions. Ragnar, face buried in a book, nodded grumpily. He'd been there for the other few times Jaskier had metabolised stronger poisons on the Path, like the other Vipers. This was nothing new for them. Letho knew better than all people alive of the high streak Jask went on while his system shut down the strains of toxin.

"Didn't know we could get high past a ton of Fisstech," murmured Stefan, smile amused and light.

"I don't remember this happening throughout training," Ivar said, watching Jaskier nuzzle Letho more than he was doing anything else. Old man looked concerned, even if he hid it well.

"New thing," Letho shrugged, making Jaskier wiggle in his hold and start humming an old tune. "He only started doing this with the stronger poisons, began late seventeen hundreds?"

"Fifteen, actually," piped up Gerring. "After he swallowed that potion."

Letho growled at the reminder.

Jaskier chirped, shifting up hastily. His hands curled around Letho's jaw clumisly, noses bopping against each other before he pulled back to giggle. "Don't be moody, Letho! Big snake's aren't meant to be grumpy."

"What are they, then?" Dragonfly asked, grinning up at Jaskier when he looked to her.

Jaskier's head tilted to the left, weight lolling back until Letho had to move his hand up to the small of his back for support lest he fall. The man didn't seem to notice as he was manhandled to lean back towards Letho's chest, which meant he wasn't in pain.

"Dunno," Jask beamed. His head turned like a bolt of lightening, startling a few. "What're they, Wolfie?"

"Cute?" Geralt suggested.

Letho snorted, bouncing Jaskier a little more to distract him. It did the job and the man grinned lazily, eyes fluttering shut as he let out a hushed giggle. "How long's he been like this?"

Usually Jaskier went on a high for however long it took for the poison to be broken down. The timespan ranged from an hour to a day, depending on the strength. When he'd sniffed Serrit's mix earlier Letho hadn't thought it would result in this. He disliked being proven wrong.

Because for Jaskier to be high after having taken a Golden Oriole meant that he would've died had he not taken the potion to combat most of the poison. The very thought sent fear lancing through his spine.

"Five minutes after you left," Annaliese told him. Letho hadn't been gone for anything more than thirty minutes, barely twenty.

He understood why Ragnar was reading.

It was going to be a long day.

"Okay," he said, offering her a nod of thanks. For his next words he turned to flick Jask, bringing the man's giddy attention back to him. "What do ya say we go on a walk?"

"Walkies!" Grinned Jask. His arms flew up, a brief celebratory motion. "Let's go! Let's go!"

Letho couldn't help but mirror that grin, even as the others groaned at the suggestion.

"I like serpents," Jaskier was rambling, flouncing around the forest path Gerring claimed to take to find hellebore. For a man with a stiff leg, he sure didn't seem it, with all his jumping. In the span of the half-hour it had taken to walk down the Tir path, he'd been bursting from Letho's arms to a piggyback ride with Geralt and vice-versa. Now that they were on grassy ground the man was on his own two feet, although for how long Stefan had doubts.

The man was amusing whilst high. He had a carefree smile and a curiously light laugh and he acted as if he was far less than a quarter of his age. Stefan supposed experiences changed people differently - whatever had happened to the Grandmaster Viper, he felt safer being happy when he was too far gone to remember it.

Something in that made Stefan's heart hurt. Made it hurt a mighty lot.

He was broken out of his observations by Jaskier's next topic of conversation.

"You'd be a Basilisk," he said, looking pointedly at Letho. Next, he looked to Ivo, "And you're like these Hellhounds I met once. They were.. you're a Hellhound!"

Letho was smirking. Ivo looked unsure if he was to find the comparison a good thing.

"And me?" Aiden popped up, grinning wildly. He'd since acquired a black eyepatch to cover up the ragged hole that was his left eye, which Dragonfly had been quick to draw a smiley face on. The sight wasn't half as silly looking as one would think, seeing as it actually somewhat suited him.

Jaskier twirled around on his left leg and tilted his head at the Cat. "Dunno many big kitties. Maybe a panther? No. You're like one of those mountain cats, all flexible and... an' cute."

"Cute?" Aiden squeaked, immediately getting pounced on by Dragonfly. They fell away from the group, wrestling in the undergrowth. The Grandmaster watched them for a moment before growing bored and twirling around.

"You'd be a little fairy, like Tinkerbell," Jaskier said to Alice, the elven healer with fair blonde hair and bright, innocent eyes.

"Ah," she smiled, eyes glittering. Stefan looked into those gems and found himself lost in their kindness. "Thank you, Grandmaster."

The man giggled, rocking on his heels for a moment. Letho and Geralt had dressed him, eventually resulting with sturdy walking boots and a slip-on dress. Jaskier had squealed childishly at it and twirled around to let it flare for a few minutes which was a lot less complaint than most people Stefan knew would've given had they been put in one. Although, the choice hadn't been so much out of jest as it was for simplicity on the other two men's side.

Annaliese turned around from her front-most position within the group. The Wolf, Ragnar, Gerring and Ivar were further along the path, Ragnar currently stooped low to pick some flower that looked a lot like Ginatia. "What of me?"

"Pretty eagle," the man crooned. His grin was blinding. "Oh, or a butterfly! Butterflies are pretty, pretty, pretty!"

His gaze darted around, landing on Stefan and Merten.

"Big fishie," Jaskier nodded, blinking at his Crane medallion. "Nah. Octopus? Pirate octopus. A PiraCto!"

Stefan grinned, twirling his moustache. He put on an accent. "Ahoy, me hearties, much gratitude!"

The man squealed, laughing that free laugh as he twirled around a fallen log. His hands bunched his umbrella dress, the light silver colour making him look like a fae at peace. Stefan lingered in the moment to appreciate life before he righted himself in reality to tune in to Jaskier's judging of the Manticore beside him.

"An' you're a... hmm." Jaskier's gaze shifted, the man looking melancholy for a moment. Then, he blinked and bounced away, hightailing it to Geralt with a grin. He beckoned the Wolf witcher's attention before lunging at the man. "Wolfie, Wolfie, Wolfie!"

"I'm a 'Hmm'," gasped Merten. "What does that mean?"

"Means he lost interest," Letho said plainly, strides lengthening to catch up with the Wolf and his Grandmaster. Jaskier had ended up slung over Geralt's shoulder and was laughing all the more for it.

"I'd say you'd be a fly," Dragonfly asserted, climbing out from a bush and flicking leaves out of her mane of hair.

Merten choked. "What? No! I'd be a devilish manticore, as per my namesake!"

"Picture this," Aiden said, jumping down from a tree. "A fly whose name means _warlike._ I think you'd be a bluebottle."

"Blasphemy!" The Manitcore witcher cried. "What utterly heinous words!"

Stefan chuckled at him as the Cats tumbled into laughter. A distinct lack of noise had him looking up, finding a silent Jaskier staring at them. He winked at him, getting a curious headtilt in response.

"Put me down, down, down!" The man sing-songed, fingers tapping at the Wolf's shoulder until the giddy Viper was set back down on the grass. He teetered for a moment, eyes shuttering as he yawned. Letho loomed over him. "Not tired," hummed Jaskier, flapping a hand at Letho even as the man yawned again.

"You sure 'bout that?" The mountain of a man questioned, voice kind even if his smirk was not.

"Yessie, yes," chittered Jaskier, blinking at the trees around them. He turned and his back straightened before he charged Ivar and wrapped around him like an octopus. "Hello!"

"'Eyo," Ivar grinned, looking happier than he ever had. He didn't make to lift Jaskier, instead choosing to waddle along with the full use of only one leg. "How ya doin', son?"

"Thought you dead," answered the man blithely. Stefan stood at a position where it was impossible to see his expression no matter how much he wished to see it. "But you good now, so we good! Dad made friends?"

"Dad made friends," Ivar agreed easily. "They're just over there, see them?"

Jaskier's head turned, following Ivar's leading finger. The man blinked and grinned at them, looking overjoyed as he clutched Ivar's hand and slid off his leg, jumping up to walk alongside him.

"They're very nice," Ivar said in the hush.

"Nice Nice or Hmm Nice?" Asked the man, eyes whizzing around the group.

"Nice Nice," Ivar confirmed whatever that meant.

"Good," nodded Jaskier. He looked solemn for a blink before a gleeful playfulness overrode it. "I like Nice Nice. People who aren't are mean."

"Mhmm," agreed Ivar, gently guiding Jaskier around a hole in the ground. "I like people who are nice, as well."

Jaskier hummed a bit of a tune for a moment before looking over to the former Grandmaster. His gaze looked all too sharp. "That mean you like my Wolfie?"

"He feed you? Treat you well? Nice Nice?"

"Yes, yes, yes," bounced Jaskier, answering Ivar's surprisingly serious questions. "He's lots nice, asks lots of questions to make sure I'm happy, happy, happy!"

"You like him?"

There was a pause where Jaskier hesitated. It was clear Geralt and Letho were watching and listening intently, even if they looked away the second Jaskier glanced over at them.

When Jaskier spoke, it was quiet and calm, as if the words themselves were sacred and anything too loud would cause mayhem. "I think I love them."

"Both?" Ivar pressed, not even having to pause to understand who _them_ referred to as Stefan had to.

"Mhmm!"

"Words, kiddo. That can mean a lotta things."

"You said it earlier," Jaskier noted, an indignant noise welling in his throat that had Ivar smirking. "Yeah. Do you think they like me too, Dad?"

Ivar's smile was soft. Softer than his voice. "Yeah, son. I think they do. Why don't you go ask them yourself?"

"Don't wanna scare 'em!" Hummed Jaskier, stepping over a twig as he beamed up at a bird's nest. "Gotta make sure you like 'em too!"

"I'm not that important," Ivar said with the resignation of a man left behind. Stefan felt the urge to look away, feeling as though he was intruding on a personal moment no one else was meant to see.

"Yes, you are. I want you to be." Jaskier sounded more like himself there than he had the whole day. Stefan risked a glance up and found the Grandmaster's steel-like stare weighting his old mentor.

No one spoke for a while. A bird chirped from its branch, a worm wriggled in the undergrowth, a twig snapped from far off. Jaskier yawned.

"Tired," he murmured, stopping where he was to hold his arms out like an expectant toddler. Letho snorted a laugh and stomped over, lifting the man onto his hip at such an angle where Jaskier's head was easily lowered to rest on the bald's shoulder. "Walkies done?"

"Yeah," huffed Letho, smoothing a hand over Jaskier's head. "Walkies done."


	27. drowning in the ocean under my head; how can i breathe in water so thick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lanir has a bad day, pietr's got a job to do, jas wakes up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: swearing, implied/referenced un-diagnosed schizophrenia, hallucinations, panic attack, past injury,   
> tell me if i missed any x

The ashen, cold stench of Lanir's panic drew Pietr from sleep abruptly, jerking him upright before he even acknowledged the sunlight filtering through the cracked blinds or the distant chirping of morning birds. As he stumbled from the bed, quickly tugging on a pair of his brother's jogging bottoms, he spared the small bedside clock a glance.

 _6_ _.35 AM,_ it read. _An early one,_ he thought, already staggering into the apartment's hallway. He brushed past Mr Green - Lanir's current hallway potted plant that was some sort of fern Tarviel had purchased - and eased open the door at the end of the hall.

Light assaulted his eyes, the painful contraction of his pupils nothing compared to the sight of Lanir folded in on himself. His brother hadn't made it to the couch, having dropped to his ass in the middle of the lounge-space's carpet, arms wrapped tightly around his legs as if they might try and run away from him. He was pale, the bags under his eyes suddenly very clear.

"Nir?" He called softly, unwilling to speak louder than a whisper and cause an outlash. He didn't know what Lanir heard or saw at times like these but he knew it was very different from the static of the tv and the rustle of wind against the window that Pietr heard.

No response. He slowly walked to the edge of the carpet before easing himself down onto his knees, carefully crawling over to his brother. Lanir shook like a new-born lamb, rocking from side to side as he muttered in old elven, distant gaze primed on a space before him.

"Lanir," he called, pushing a trill into his voice in the way Lanir said he liked. His brother said the other voices didn't sound like that, couldn't go that different all of a sudden and he liked that. Finding something the voices couldn't ruin was rare and so they all held such things close to their chests. "Brother, I'm here."

Nothing. Not even a twitch. Pietr hadn't expected much, although for the muttering to grow louder was disheartening. Lanir often remarked on how the voices didn't hurt him in the way his brothers thought they did but the truth was that the very presence of the voices hurt Pietr and Tarviel more than Lanir could ever know. The wretched things had stolen Lanir from them, warped and twisted him after the War, left him sad and aching and alone, near the brink. Had Pietr not found him that bleak night, the voices would've taken Lanir from them completely, permanently.

But Pietr would help his brother. He would try his best, do his best, no matter what stood in his way. If it meant taking a punch or a stabbing or even broken bones - his arm gave a tingle in memory - he would overcome all if his brothers needed him.

Right now, Lanir needed him.

So Pietr crawled closer, whispering old elven words to match Lanir's ragged elven counting and placed a hand on his brother's quivering shoulder. Wild, frenzied eyes shot to him, Lanir's face stretched with the same horror that surrounded him, clogged up the room and left the air stale.

"I'm here," he trilled again, gripping the arm nearest to him. Lanir's knuckles were white with his grip on himself. Pietr didn't want to see him hurt. "I'll always be here. Where is it?"

"There," Lanir breathed, voice high and ragged, almost grating. He pointed, grip coming undone for him to show the location of his latest petrifying hallucination. "It's there. Burn it?"

Pietr curled closer to his brother, not even sparing a thought for the mat carpet as he threw an Igni to where his brother pointed. He surged forth, wrapping his brother up in his arms as the other man cried, tears overflowing as his iron grip bruised Pietr's skin instead of his own. A quick Aard put out the flames before the mat could do anything but darken and curl. The stench was thick, mixing with the remaining fear.

As good brothers did, Pietr held Lanir. He held him until he stopped crying and didn't let go. He soothed him even when he had to pull up a Quen to assure him that the monster was gone and couldn't get to them and didn't release Lanir's trembling form. He cradled him until Lanir pulled back and then Pietr wiped his brother's tears from his cheeks and pretended his own weren't wet as well.

"Breakfast?" He suggested, having had to swallow thrice before he found his voice.

Lanir didn't look at him after he'd pulled back, instead focusing on righting his shirt and fiddling with his pyjama bottoms' tassel. "Pancakes?" He asked tentively.

"Blueberry or raspberry?" Pietr broached, just to get a rise out of him.

"Oh, fuck off," chuckled his brother, the sound threatening to give way to a voice crack only once. "Make me chocolate chip ones, you bitch."

"Chocolate isn't healthy for you!" He jested, rolling out of the way of Lanir's playful swing. Pietr rocked himself onto his heels, standing up in one fluid motion. The hand he offered down to Lanir was taken and he tugged his brother up, shoving him onto the couch and pushing the tv controller into his hands before prancing off to find eggs for the pancake batter.

"You should've woke me up," Pietr murmured quietly when the batter was rolling about and taking shape in the pan.

Lanir said nothing. The tv channel changed abruptly.

He served the chocolate chip pancakes the way Lanir liked them: with lots of chocolate and a very unhealthy dose of nutella dolloped on top, freshly whipped cream on the side. Pietr set them on the breakfast bar, sitting down beside his brother with his bowl of shredded wheat cereal.

"You were tired," Lanir said eventually, after having sat down to the pancakes and given token protests about there not being enough nutella.

 _I'm always tired,_ Pietr wanted to say but couldn't out of fear Lanir would take it too far and place the blame on himself. "I don't mind," he said instead.

"When's Tar free from Ragnar?" His brother asked in the silence. He forewent cutlery for using his hands, smushing as much cream onto his pancake before carefully rolling it up to eat like a wrap.

Pietr's cereal tasted like cardboard on his tongue as he chewed and swallowed it down. He accepted the topic change without spoken protest. "Sometime tomorrow. Didn't think you were gonna let him stay over after last time?"

Last time Tarviel had stayed over at Lanir's apartment Tar had managed to set the bathroom alight. Neither he nor Lanir knew how it had been done, as the small room only held a sink, a cupboard and a toilet with a small shower. No candles or anything fire-starting related was to be found but then, Tarviel always had been a bit eccentric.

"He's on time limits to shower and stuff," said Lanir. "We'll see how anyone could burn down a bathroom if they've only got a minute to piss."

"And if he goes overtime?" Pietr smirked, lifting his bowl to drink down the remaining milk. When he was finished he slipped from the stool and walked over to slip his stuff in the dishwasher, biting down the shiver that always came at touching Lanir's cold kitchen tiles.

"Then he can sleep on the couch. Are those my joggers?"

"Maybe," he shrugged, spying the not yet fully-eaten pancakes and shutting the dishwasher door. To rub it in, he thumbed the elasticated hem of the grey cotton, letting it thump back against his skin. Standing in the airy kitchen, the window above the sink now wide open, he became aware that he was not wearing a shirt. His bad arm panged at the temperature drop, bicep muscle spasming for a moment. "Think I'll get a shower and change. Letho wants us to do that job for him, remember?"

A simple reconnaissance mission. Letho had his eyes on someone who could be useful and wanted surveillance on them for a character check. A Doppelgänger family, located in the far-out reaches of the Ancient community in Letho's city. Father, wife, boy.

Quiet and easy, if one liked whiling away their entire day to spying on people from opposite rooftops and listening to their conversations with well-placed bugs. Thankfully, Vipers were born for things like these. Pietr had spent most of the War listening to conversations he shouldn't have.

Lanir hesitated, fingers twitching the way they did when he was tired. Pietr swallowed before speaking again.

"Although from what he said it's pretty mundane, I won't tell if you wanna hook up the PS4 and play with Auckes."

His brother grabbed another pancake, motioning for the nutella jar when he scooped up the last of it on his plate. Pietr obliged in grabbing it, holding it just out of Lanir's reach.

"Lanir?" He asked.

"Fine, I'll stay." Grumped his brother. "I can see when I'm not wanted. Gimme the nutella, you clutz!"

Below the curled lip and the flashing eyes was relief, a silent thanks. Lanir reached futilely for the glass jar, a hiss working up his throat. He'd accepted the terms.

"Meanie," Pietr breathed as if winded. "That hurt." He slid the jar over, the noise loud in the buzz of only the tv.

The amount of nutella Lanir scooped out of the jar and dropped onto his plate with his knife was hellish. "Fuck off, unless you want a time limit, too?"

"No, no, I'm good," Pietr smirked, already making plans to pop round his place in Redania to feed Softie. "Hey, you want me to bring Softie over? I bet she's lonely."

"Don't pawn your rabbit off on me, bro," Lanir snuffled past the pancake in his mouth. He closed his mouth to chew and seemed to struggle to open it again, lips stuck by the nutella.

Pietr seized the opportunity. "Really? Three seconds to object - one," Lanir swallowed his bite and forced his tongue through the barrier of chocolate. He rushed through the countdown quicker than normal, "Two, three, oh what great news. I'll bring her over after my shower!"

"Three minutes!" Cawed Lanir as he turned on his heel and bee-lined for the bathroom. "You have three minutes or else I'm skinning your rabbit for stew!"

He finished in two. Softie was very happy to see Lanir, even if the brat grumbled. Pietr figured she liked the carrot he fed her.

Poised in the abandoned building opposite the place he'd traced the phone number back to, Pietr sat with his bugs and laptop in the gloom. He'd had the expert foresight to bring his sleeping bag to sit on and, worst case scenario, to use as a cover if someone entered the building by chance. A simple squatter, homeless and looking for shelter if anyone asked.

Not that anyone would. The outskirts of the Ancient community were the dirty parts of the city no well-fairing mortal dared enter. Sooner be mugged than they'd discover magic, sooner have their throat slit than see the vampires kissing in the back alleys.

He sat, and sat, and sat. Then, his ass started to hurt and he played with the possibility that he'd set up station a bit too early. How was he supposed to know the Dopplers wouldn't be awake at seven?

At some point, he'd laid down on the sleeping bag, laptop a gushing swathe of heat on his stomach as he stared at the unmoving cam screens. He almost wished he'd brought his large White Dwarf rabbit with him, if only to snuggle with while he waited, but the consolation that she was keeping Lanir company offset any thoughts of going and retrieving her. Plus, he didn't want to leave the family's side, in case something happened when he was gone.

He could see it now: the building bursting into flame the second he portalled out, leaving the planted cameras to witness the blaze. Already, he'd set up small cameras by the windows - each barely the size of a small money spider - and had activated one of the moving ones to plant itself in the only room where there the window cover was abysmal, the kitchen. Letho would have a field day with him, between moaning of his newest interests being killed, he'd undoubtedly find time to gut Pietr.

That wouldn't be fun. A Griffin had gutted Pietr once, it had been a marvel experience, mainly because it had been his first time with his intestines literally outside of his stomach. Tarviel and Lanir still didn't know the story and he intended to keep it that way. All that was left of that day was the scars and the memories.

Serrit was probably gutted. Late last night it had come out on the Viper's texting group that Master had been poisoned. It explained why Tarviel had been sending memes to Pietr and Lanir all day, as Ragnar had likely been more than busy to waste time going back to his home to check in on him. Tar was in for it today, though - Ragnar wouldn't be pleased to return to him having brewed less than half of the potions he was forcing Tar to brew whilst sleeping in the spare room.

He hoped Master was alright, although seeing as Letho hadn't made the calls Pietr hoped it was safe to assume no one was dead. _Yet._

As he said, Serrit was probably nearing it. To poison their Grandmaster in the keep, of all places, surrounded by Vipers and other witchers, was a fool's errand. If Pietr were to do something - _never_ to Master, but y'know, _hypothetically_ \- he had more sense to do it in an isolated location. It seemed Serrit's stupidity was boundless.

The way he saw it, the crook's death was a traitor less to worry about. Pietr was still annoyed the cad had sold out Master to that ass-mage Stregosaur. At least Strego-whotsit was dead already.

Bored, Pietr sighed, his train of thought derailing. Gods, he was going to regret accepting this at the end of the day - he could've been playing console with Auckes!

Auckes. Serrit was his brother; they'd spent years walking the path together, talking, joking, being blood related. Pietr tried to imagine how he was feeling right now, having had blood turned against him, and envisioned Tarviel or Lanir trying to kill Master, holding so much resentment it tinged the air bitter.

The very thought was horrifying. Pietr buzzed through the cams, watching as some bushy haired, flickering eyed kid popped out from one of the bedrooms. To him, the very notion of having to leave his brothers to die to Letho's blade - rightfully, as was the fate of weasels - it hurt, it ached, left him feeling hollow.

He'd have to call Auckes later, make sure he was good. Maybe they could set up an outing. Pietr needed to get something for Tarviel's birthday (something they only celebrated now after the mortals had raised it celebration worthy. Nowadays, the Vipers took any chance for alcohol).

The kid in the building opposite bounced into the bathroom, where Pietr had not placed cameras for the preservation of his own mental state. It was one thing to travel in a nomadic caravan and watch your brothers piss in bushes and another thing completely to watch a stranger piddle in their porcelain room. Pietr had morals, even if they chose odd times to show up (and depended on who he was with).

He spent the few minutes waiting for the kid to emerge wondering if it was wise to pull up a solitaire side screen and play it. Settling with fiddling at the stickers stuck to the laptop's touch pad (because Tar was a dick when he got drunk), he refocused his eyes as the kid burst into his parents' room.

A thin man emerged from the room, yawning as the kid dragged him down the stairs. The man's hair changed, slipping from short and blonde to waist-length and a bright pink. His face changed, a woman's jaw snapping into place as their eyes flushed blue. Pietr slipped one ear-bud in and dialled up the audio.

"C'mon, Mom!" The kid, now with short blue hair from his earlier black, chittered. "Can I flip the eggs again?"

The pair walked into the kitchen, the kid with a lot more excitement. Pietr recalled his conversation with Letho, hushed and over the phone - due to Master being asleep. The bald had mentioned the wife possibly being gender-neutral, saying the man had only referred to them as 'they'.

Mom was non-binary, or genderqueer, or whatever the mortals called it. Pietr noted that, making a reference for future to not use the wrong pronouns in case Letho got his way and they met (which they would because Letho _always_ got his way).

"We haven't even started yet, Matias," chuckled Mom. Their voice was soft, a drawl of notes that separated them from being effeminate or masculine completely and gave them a unique hum that could've been described as thrilling.

"I'm Eli today," said the kid, looking down at themself and shifting into a female body. "Can I do the eggs when we start?"

"Of course, my dear heart," smiled Mom. "Let's start now, hmm? We can surprise Dad with breakfast in bed if we are quick."

"Yes!"

Pietr dialled the audio down a bit as they chirped and hummed as the cooked. He lay up in the cold, draughty room and let his head thump against the wall. Long day, it was going to be a long day.

Hid head thrummed, his throat was dry. Jaskier peeled open his eyes to the sight of Geralt's thigh, the man sitting up in his bed whereas Jaskier was lying face first in the pillows. Letho's reassuring bulk was behind him and for a moment, he wondered if they'd made up before questioning where that thought had came from.

"Get your report in by tomorrow morning," Letho was saying, voice low. Jaskier tuned in, uncovered ear picking up the hum of a phone. He was calling someone. "Yep, enjoy, brat. Pssh, go to sleep."

He hung up, the phone being set on the bedside table with a soft thump. His large callused hand stroked over Jaskier's hair, earning him a low rumble. Letho's returning chuckle made the bed shake.

"How long you been awake?"

"Dunno," Jaskier grunted, voice low as he blinked, rolling onto his back. Both his boys were on his sides, Letho sitting staring down at him while Geralt stared at some book he was half sure was off one of his shelves. "What happened breakfast?"

Letho snorted. Geralt made a forlorn noise. "Wouldn't sit still for it," said his Viper, large fingers curling in through his hair. Jaskier leaned up into them, feeling his leg ache. "Wolf let you have a nap before it and we paid the price."

"How was I supposed to know he'd wake up worse?" Geralt prorested weakly.

"Worse?" Jaskier echoed, a tendril of self-doubt worming its way into his chest. "I don't remember?"

Amber eyes bored into him, bright in the darkness of his room. "Serrit poisoned ya. We strung him up."

"You didn't..." Jaskier hesitated, propping his elbows under him. Letho was smirking.

"Maybe," taunted the man. Geralt's huff of silent laughter gave them away.

Jaskier grumbled, sitting up and nearly whimpering at the ice-hot bolt of agony that jolted up to his spine. His entire leg felt like it was on fire, knee a bristling apex for the spasm that wracked his limb and locked his hip up. Letho's hands gripped him, pulling him into that sturdy chest as Geralt rocked off the bed and rooted through the drawer unit per Letho's instructions.

"It's alright, shh," Geralt blurred and Letho's finger wiped away tears Jaskier hadn't known he'd cried. "Youll be okay. Breathe with me, c'mon."

"Hurts," he hiccupped, breath catching in his throat. The world spun around him and he clutched the blankets even as they were lifted from his legs.

"I know," Letho mulled _but he didn't know._ _No one knew._ "Deep breath. Wolf's gonna lift your foot to put on your compression sock, okay?"

Jaskier took a deep breath, quickly expelling it as Geralt lightly gripped his ankle, lifting his foot to roll on the sock. His lungs asked for air as he watched the black fabric swallow up his scarred leg, Geralt's swift hands being careful to not push or touch skin as he got it on him. The tightness of the knee-length sock helped, calming the racing pulses of pain that zapped through his veins.

He breathed, sagging from his pained tense posture to a breathless slump against Letho as Geralt shuffled up on his other side.

"Alright?" His Wolf enquired.

"Mhmm," Jaskier murmured, not yet daring to move his leg. "What time is it?"

"Late, near one in the morning," Letho said, comforting hold barely moving as his arm stretched back to check his phone.

Geralt looked worried. "You hungry?"

Pausing for a moment to see if he was, Jaskier shook his head, feeling ready to drop as his vision rocked. "No. 'm tired."

"Sleep then," Letho soothed, left hand grasping his bicep and warming him to the core.

"We'll be here," Geralt agreed. He snuffled close and pulled the blankets back over them both before kissing his cheek. The book reappeared in his lap despite how Jaskier was practically wrapped up between the two.

"Hmm," he blinked, head tilting away from Letho as he tapped his left cheek. "I wanna kiss."

"You already got one," Letho smirked but bent and pecked his cheek. He made to pull away but rolled forwards and licked a stripe of saliva up his face. Jaskier choked, cackling as he pushed at the larger man's chest. "Enjoy that?"

"Noo," Jaskier grinned, leaning towards Geralt as he swiped at his wet cheek. He resettled closer to his Wolf and calmed, head lolling towards the book in the white haired man's hands. "Read to us?"

"You sure?" Geralt hummed, smiling down at him. Jaskier snuffled into his neck, inhaling his scent as he gripped Letho's wrist and did the same. Their mixed scents made him giddy and he let a pleased rumble vibrate his vocal cords.

"That was a yes," Letho snickered, shunting forwards to pull Jaskier into him and let Geralt get a better grip on his book to read. "Go on, Wolf. Read to the babe snake."

"I am a snake," Jaskier said petulantly, already a sack of bones in Letho's hug. "'m a good snake."

"We know," someone said and Geralt and Letho shared a smirk over his head. Geralt huddled down and began reading.

" _But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them..._ "


	28. stay silent and all will be forgiven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double povs with my favourite Cats Aiden and Dragonfly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: the usual swearing, the harsh life of witchers, past injury, trauma etc.
> 
> Sorry it's so late... Any prompts or ideas you want to read?

Dragonfly woke to Aiden strewn out over nearly the entire bed, the blankets and furs only just keeping him some dignity. She bit her tongue to swallow the uncontrollable cackle and stretched, back arching as she reached out. After doing so, she yawned and spared the gleaming sunlight a slow look. The little clock with blinking red numbers beside the bed on the wooden bedside table claimed it was a little past eleven. Morning, still, but earlier than lunch.

Knowing Aiden wouldn't be up before lunch without a fight, she pushed the blankets off herself and rolled to her feet. The cold floor felt like ice against her skin, sending a full-bodied shiver along her spine as her nipples perked. Dragonfly hissed, arms wrapping around herself, fingers clenching in the soft cotton of her long sleep shirt. The thing was large enough to fall down to her knees. Ai had expressed a certain appreciation for the hem she'd sewn onto it on the cusp of a panic and the thought was nice, even if she knew it was shoddy.

Still, shoddily hemmed or not, the shirt was more than capable of being worn to bed and covering her up on her journey to the nearest bathroom. The sheer amount and size of the bathrooms never failed to amuse her; what could twelve men possibly do with so many? One each, perhaps?

She showered quickly, stomach growling at her that she was hungry. Dressed in the trousers and henley shirt she'd brought with her to the bathroom, she brushed her teeth and dipped back to her shared room. Aiden was still asleep and she took great joy in chucking her night shirt over his chest. He stirred to blink at her and they exchanged grins before he rolled over and took half the bed with him into his coddling roll. Today was the day they were going to Letho's bar, the day previous having been spent watching documentaries and infomercials whilst Jaskier worked off the poison high.

(To even think one of the snakes would betray their own so late in the game was shocking. A shocking reality Dragonfly wasn't sure if she could face once more.)

(To add to her worries: was Gemmeria still thriving? Had the Childlike Empress taken over her land as she had so many else's? Who was she if not a Queen nor a Witcher? What was she to do without a Path to roam now she had no castle to rule?)

The little elven healer, Alice, had gone home late last night, citing she had work and things to do. The medic man, Ragnar, had taken her with the mutterings of having to check up on someone named Tarviel. That left the six others Dragonfly had known for centuries, Ivar's son and his two boy toys alone in the keep. Though, ten witchers was hardly few.

She assumed Serrit was still around, probably in the room they'd dumped him in; having shackled him to the floor and ceiling. Although, seeing as Letho had paid him a visit in the early hours, Dragonfly wasn't sure if the traitor could be counted as among the living.

Settled deep in her thoughts, she wallowed along the corridors, woollen socks a barrier against the cool stone. The entire keep was in impeccable condition and the very sight almost made her want to return to Stygga to repair her. If Stygga even still stood after so many years. Were there even any other Cat witchers out there; no one had known.

"Dragonfly," Ivar greeted as she stepped into the kitchen. The man was stooped over the stove, frying something that smelt heavenly. "Sleep well?"

"Better than I used to," she tried for a smile, head tilting to take in the spectacle of Ivo reaching down the box of cereal for Annaliese. "And you?"

"As well as I can," the older man nodded, flipping his bacon with his weird spatula thing. "Would you like a fry?"

"I'm alright," she thanked. "I'm in the mood for milk."

"A Cat through and through," Stefan chuckled as he entered, ruffling her hair with a hand as the other clutched the towel around his neck. He was shirtless but that did nothing to stop her from delivering a smooth breath-taker to his stomach. The Crane nearly toppled, wheezing as he grinned and shook off the haymaker. "Your strength is sure returning. Might actually break something next time!"

"Why don't I try again and see how it goes?" She laughed, mock-rearing up for another punch. The Crane was quick to jump away, flapping his hands as he scuttled over to hide behind a glowering Ivo. Ivar watched them over his shoulder, amused. Annaliese poured milk into her bowl before replacing the carton in the fridge.

Dragonfly took a deep breath to calm herself and counted backwards from ten in her mind. Her hand unclenched and she rocked into a softer position, one less tense. The silence bit at her. She asked, "Where are the others?"

"Merten's looking for more clothes. Beast finally realised two shirts will not do him." Stefan snickered, easily reaching up to grab a cereal box. Annaliese pouted at the height difference, Ivo smirking at her from the sidelines. "Aiden?"

"Sleeping," she replied.

"Ah, of course. Jaskier and Letho are sparring amongst the puddles in the courtyard if I'm correct. Seen them out a window - very disorientating. Not sure if Geralt is with them."

"He probably is," grunted Ivar. "I haven't seen him away from Jaskier the entire time he's been back."

"Good point," Stefan agreed before reiterating. "Yes, the Wolf is probably with the Vipers."

"Suicidal, if you ask me," Ivo huffed, joking.

Feeling out of place standing in the doorway, Dragonfly shifted forwards, testing her speed as she darted towards Stefan and grabbed his bowl from him. His cheerios fell onto the counter as he failed to compensate for the loss of the ceramic and she stepped beside him, stopping in time to see his exaggerated pout.

"How rude," he managed past his twitching eye. Forlornly, he picked at the pile of cereal and made a low noise like a whale. Mourning; he was mourning his breakfast. "This poor cereal, witnessing the light of day only to be released upon the harsh stone counter. Destined for demise."

"Just get another bowl and scoop it in, you melodramatic." Ivo rolled his eyes, meandering out of the kitchen with his plate of toast. Annaliese offered Stefan a sympathetic lip-twist before following the Bear, careful to balance her bowl to avoid any spillages of her own.

Dragonfly bit her tongue once more to keep the cackle inside her chest, resulting in a low hissing sound. Stefan huffed at her before reaching around and grabbing himself another bowl.

"Would you like anything, m'lady?" The Crane mocked, gesturing to the selection of cereal boxes she couldn't reach because all the Vipers were freakishly tall and their shelving units echoed this. "Some shredded wheat or lucky charms, perhaps?"

"I'll go with the cookie crunch," she hummed, bouncing on her toes as the man grabbed the dull box for her, setting it down on the countertop space between their bowls. He watched her sharply, lips held in a teasing smirk as he cowed away with his bowl. She giggled and stuck her tongue out at him as she poured herself a portion. It was awfully small so she took benefits and filled the bowl up.

When it became clear she was not going to sabotage Stefan's administration once more, the Crane pushed his cereal back into a bowl and strode over to grab milk from the fridge whilst Dragonfly waited.

Faced against the stark light of the machine, Stefan paused, looking at something. "What's vegan milk?"

"Jaskier's." Said a new voice, Geralt appearing in the doorway. The Wolf's white hair was brushed back in a tight bun, braids circling the circumference to the hairtie. What didn't fit in the bun hung loose, shimmering around his neck, bringing out the glint of his golden eyes. His medallion stood proudly on his chest, a shine against his black tunic.

"Vegan is... Vegan milk isn't milk." Stefan stuttered, painfully confused.

Geralt agreed. "That's what he says too."

"Then why drink it?" Dragonfly smirked, growing bored of her wait as she grabbed her bowl and started eating the miniature cookies dry.

Rewarding her with a shrug, Geralt proceeded on his path to grab a water bottle from a cupboard. He came away with a red one and set it down before reaching back in and pulling out a sparkly pink one. Dragonfly munched at her breakfast, hissing at Stefan, watching as the Wolf witcher grabbed a plain blue bottle to join his collection.

"Sparring outside," the man said, catching her gaze as he strode over to the sink to fill the bottles with water. "If you want to join."

"You tag-teaming?" Ivar asked, finally dishing up his bacon and eggs. They slipped onto his waiting plate just as Stefan returned to Dragonfly's side, taking his sweet time in filling his own bowl before turning to her and apologising by filling hers too.

"Yeah," Geralt grunted, screwing on the caps before he was gone just as quick as he'd arrived.

Dragonfly, deciding it was worth something to watch other witchers get hot and sweaty with pretty knives in their hands, gulped down her breakfast so that she could get Aiden in on the action. That boy needed some sunlight.

"Come oooooooooon," Dragon whined, tugging at his arm as he brushed his teeth. Aiden side-eyed her, debating whether or not stabbing her dead with a toilet plunger was plausible, but otherwise put up with the distraction. "Hurry up, Ai! I wanna see the Vipers sparring."

"'m noh keepin' yoh here," he mumbled, bending forth to spit in the sink and rinse his toothbrush. "You can go without me."

"Yeah, but where's the fun in that?" The woman fawned, re-attaching herself to his arm as soon as he'd finished splashing water over his face. "Anyways, we have to gawk at their muscles _together,_ Ai, or it looks silly if it's just me. Pleaaaase?"

"Okay," he sighed, letting himself be dragged along the cold hallways. Dragonfly made a quick detour to satisfy his stomach with a pilfered box of cereal, some coloured things called lucky charms, but otherwise she was brutal in her advance.

The courtyard was quiet. With the entire keep outside, Aiden would've assumed they'd be louder than the bells of hell but in reality, his fellow ex-cellmates were running distracted drills with their forms whilst watching Jaskier taunt his two bedmates. Aiden stood and munched on his brunch as Dragonfly dropped into splits beside him.

Geralt was currently stood at an impasse, staring up at the Grandmaster Viper where he stood upon the stone of the gate's archway. Though both Geralt and Letho's swords were drawn and pointed in his direction, Jaskier was grinning, idling as he drunk from a red plastic water bottle. Letho, the fearsome man, was stood to the side, twirling one of his fangs as he gulped from a pink glittery bottle.

"Not going to climb, Ger-Bear?" Jaskier hummed into the breeze. The courtyard was fairly protected from the winds that roared in the Tir mountains caverns but where the man stood at his elevated height, his hair ruffled and his voice struggled to carry above a hushed whisper.

"Only if you fall the wrong way," the Wolf said, longsword held in his hand. Jaskier smirked down at him, tossing the water bottle in his hands, blade surprisingly missing, and laughed. Geralt's free hand shot up in an impressive Aard and the quietened yelp was all that the courtyard heard as Jaskier disappeared beyond the wall. He didn't appear where he should've on the other side of the gate, a low cackle ringing out to echo in the air.

Aiden lingered as his fellow Cat idled on her stretches, watching the three. As soon as Jaskier vanished, Letho set his water bottle down on a wooden bench and had a climbing contest with the Wolf. The larger man won by a breath, bald head glinting for a brief moment as he stood on the highest gate stone.

He was tackled in a blur, the dark swathe that was Jaskier unfurling from the edge of a battlement further along the wall and sweeping the bald man down. Geralt was a second behind, crushing into Letho as the two men tag-teamed him and pushed the man onto his ass on the opposite side of the barred gate.

"You fuckers!" The man barked, face scrunched by his grin. He rolled out of Jaskier's lunge, rising in time to parry Geralt's slashes before he reared up and booted the white haired man out of view. Jaskier made a frenzied sound, grin sharp, and darted at the personified mountain, arms wrapping around him as he pushed Letho where Geralt had went. They all disappeared from view, gone behind the walls that circled what jutted out from the mountainside rocks.

"They'll be fine," Ivar grunted in the stunted silence. "The first time Jask went into the hollow, he was ten, near. He can get them out if they fall."

"That's reassuring," Aiden tilted his head, throwing a handful of cereal into his mouth.

"It should be," smoldered the greying haired man, hand curling through his trimmed and cleaned beard. "Now, who wants to run the hollow with me?"

Aiden signed up for it. They all did.

They regretted it very quickly.

"You're insane, old man," Ivo panted, hands on his knees as he fought for breath. Annaliese was on the ground beside him, pale as she wafted air at herself.

Jaskier sat on the battlement, smirking down at them in silence. Aiden didn't know where the other two were but right now, past the burning of his lungs and the rush of colours along the edge of his vision, he didn't really care.

The Grandmaster Viper was swinging his left leg back and forth, right leg unmoving, two different socks on. He had a yellow trainer sock on his left foot and a long knee-high black sock on his right. Aiden wasn't exactly sure if it was a reflection of today's current fashion or if it was a severe case of having no paired socks but he wasn't about to ask. There was no need to offend the guy, especially when he had two guard dogs in the form of a white Wolf and a fierce Viper.

A groan caught his attention, pulling his eyes downwards. Beside Aiden stooped Merten and Stefan, the two men having practically fallen over themselves as they'd passed the threshold of Gorthur Gvaed's gates. Dragonfly's breaths wheezed and even Ivar seemed a tad winded. Gerring, who'd accompanied them as well, was chuckling with Ivar over something, flapping his shirt to cool down.

When old man Ivar had suggested running the hollow, Aiden had thought it would be a quick sprint, not some damned _marathon_ in the cool shadows of the mountains, running amongst unstable ground on a rickety path and occasionally hugging the walls. They'd done an entire lap, starting from the keep, running out into the foilage at the very eastern-most point of the mountain ends and curling around to run through the forest and down the path the Vipers would've regularly travelled to winter.

At least, he understood why they kept medallions that portalled them in and out. The path down was a death trap waiting to happen. He wasn't even sure if they'd once managed to get horses down it, it was so steep and narrow.

The constant clatter of stones ringing in his ears also made it sound as if a rock fall was just waiting to happen.

In short, he was never running with Ivar ever again. His nerves couldn't take it.

"That was hell," Stefan agreed, voice raw.

"Never doing that again," Aiden said, then reflected on the satisfying burn to his muscles and reiterated. "Well, not with _you_ at least."

"That implies you'd do it again," Merten choked. "Lebioda have mercy, your child requires strength."

"You can have water," Letho offered, dropping a water bottle into the Manticore's grasping hands. Geralt appeared beside him, the two men having filled their arms with water bottles that they passed out easily. Aiden accepted his with a grin and could've mistook it for one of Axel's old experimental brews from before Joël's influence - those early brews had been better calming potions than most other forms.

He felt as if he could melt into the ground at the sensation of the cool water against his dry throat. Dragonfly gave a mewl that echoed how he felt.

"Much appreciated," Ivar said, accepting his own bottle. "There was a plan of going to your bar, Letho?"

"Yeah," grunted the man, arms free. "We'll go for lunch. Everyone who wants to come get cleaned up and meet in the parlour in ten."

"Let's go!" Dragonfly dived into Aiden's back, rocking him forth into an emergency frontflip that left him glaring at her giggling form as she sprinted into the keep. He watched her go, remembering how she'd been gasping for air a second ago and took a deep breath and ran after her.

They met in the parlour, which Stefan made a point of asking if whether or not it was actually a living room. Being threatened by three Vipers' glares had shut him up pretty quick. Eventually, fifteen minutes after the announcement had been made, they were all gathered in the room.

"Ready?" Letho asked, giving Jaskier a hand up from where he'd sat. The Wolf had tied the man's boots, effectively covering up the trainer sock but making the black sock all the more clear. Aiden squashed his curiosity down, not mentioning the wince Jaskier breathed as he stood or the short blue skirt he wore with his long sleeved yellow sweater.

Something deep inside of him wondered if men were allowed to wear this sort of stuff. That very dame voice wondered if Aiden would be able to wear things like that as well.

"Yep!" Dragonfly grinned, twirling about in her woollen turtle necked dress. She clicked her boot heels together like the girl in Wizard of Oz had and clapped her hands. "Let's go, let's go!"

Letho snorted at her. "Everybody hold hands."

They linked up, Merten and Stefan dramatically scowling at having to hold each others hands, and Letho gripped his medallion with his free hand - the arm of which Jaskier clung to. A bar materialised around them, Aiden's stomach doing a funny little thing where it jumped and tried to squeeze in on itself.

It smelt nice enough, a soft peppermint scent in the air that was overlapped with the smell of various non-humans. Straight off, there was a woman sitting beside the front door on a stool, a Higher Vampire by the looks of it, and at least three werewolves huddled around one of the circular tables in the far middle-back. Around the walls stood comfy booths, a group of elves situated at one, a spread of fries and crisps being shared between them.

Letho grinned to the man behind the bar as Jaskier gave them an emotionless wave. The man, with gaudy scars all down his chin and through his cheeks, squinted his eyes in turn and nodded, giving something Aiden was sure was meant to be a smirk.

"Food's classic bar stuff, but decent," Letho grunted, going with Jaskier to a booth. They piled after them, sequestering in the corner booth where Jaskier snapped his fingers and made the seats and table large enough for them all to flop round. The eleven of them sat, Geralt sliding up to sit beside Jaskier, bracketing the man between Letho and himself.

Aiden stuck himself in the curve of the seating and Dragonfly curled around him. Gerring dropped himself down beside Ivar, both of them smirking as Merten and Stefan nearly fell over each other on the short walk to the booth.

"Hey!" Squawked Merten. "Watch where you're going!"

Stefan jested, "And be forced to look at you? I think not."

"Why you-" Ivo cut the Manticore off, rolling his eyes as he pushed between the two and sat down after letting Annaliese sit beside Dragonfly. The Bear sat beside the Griffin and growled at the two men still standing.

"Hurry up," he scolded. Stefan winked at Merten and slipped in beside the Bear, leaving Merten to trail along and get the edge seat.

After they'd settled, the scarred man from behind the bar came over. He offered a nod to Letho, the bald man taking it upon himself to speak for him.

"Kerro does a good gin and tonic, if anyone's interested. Food's the usual burgers and fries. Orders?"

"Ale?" Ivar asked.

"Beer," Jaskier hummed in correction.

"Aye, I'll take a beer," the man scratched his beard. "And whatever's best to eat."

"Are there salads?" Annaliese questioned.

"Nah," Letho shrugged. "Fries?"

"Very well."

The orders went around, everyone eventually settling on just a burger and fries, with Jaskier and Annaliese sticking to just fries. They all got beers, with the exception of Dragonfly getting a gin and tonic with a cute lemon on the glass.

"We'll go down to our centre," offered Letho as Kerro walked away. "Take y'all shopping."

Geralt grunted his approval, currently adhering to the whims of Jaskier and staying perfectly still as the man twirled his long white hair on his fingers, deftly braiding some of the hanging hair that wasn't in his redone bun. "There's lots of shops down there. Might see something you like."

"Ooh, what like?" Dragon perked up, wriggling beside Aiden and jarring him.

Jaskier dropped his braid, watching as it tumbled apart before brushing his fingers through what remained. "Phone shop still down there?"

"Yeah," Letho hissed, offering a sharp grin to the girl that brought over their drinks. "Thanks, doll."

"Of course," she smirked back, setting the glasses out for them before twirling off.

"Good. You can all pick out phones there," Jaskier nodded, rocking back to nudge at Letho's arm. "She was better."

"Started taking a drink before her shifts," the man said, not entirely impressed. Jaskier's face twisted into something that could've been sheepish had his scent not turned amused.

"Whoops," murmured the man, eyes flickering as he looked around them. "Oh well. Anywhere anyone wants to go?"

As if on cue, Letho's phone buzzed. Aiden sipped at his drink, finding it better than he had thought it would be, and watched the man's eyes roll.

A scoff as Jaskier leaned in to read the text message. "Pietr's hungry. Brat's insisting I bring him something."

"Can't keep him waiting," said the Grandmaster. "We wouldn't want him starving on an important stakeout."

Letho looked irritated at him for all of a moment before he stood, "Alright, back soon."

Aiden watched the bald stomp him way over to the bar, striking up a conversation with Kerro that Aiden didn't care for.

"Important stakeout?" He echoed instead, drilling into Jaskier as the older man reached for his beer. "Who're you stalking?"

"Doppler family," Jaskier said, eyes flicking to Ivo. "Found one impersonating one of you so we dealt with it. Turns out they were doing contracts believing Ivo dead."

"What?" Growled the Bear, surprise colouring his scent bitter. "Impersonating me? How?"

"Seen Stregobor capture you and thought you were dead so they carried it on," Jaskier sighed, as if already bored of the conversation. Ivo's annoyance was sharp, his anger a small but smouldering cloud in the storm.

He growled. "And when were you gonna tell me?"

"Probably a few days," responded the other, finger trailing through the condensation on his glass. His eyes looked dimmer than before, lips pinched with blank indecision and his skin was pale, lighter than its usual flush. He could've acted dead to a human had he simply stopped breathing. "We're checking them out."

"Why not just kill them if they annoyed you?" Dragonfly questioned.

Jaskier seemed amused, lips twisting for all of a moment. Aiden blinked and it was gone, the man's scent and face unreadable. "They are no threat. Letho's taken quite the liking for them."

"Great, more people in my keep," Gerring groaned. "I moved in to get away from people, not be surrounded by them any time other than winter."

"Perhaps you should find somewhere else then," Jaskier said, but it was soft and teasing. An obvious joke.

Gerring sneered at him but left it after rolling his eyes. By the bar, Letho turned to fling a rude gesture at Jaskier before portalling away with a small bag.

Ivo's fire had burnt out, his anger now a glare that Jaskier brushed off easily. Annaliese patted his shoulder before turning to inquire about Dragon's drink.

"What kind of shops are there?" Stefan asked.

"All sorts," Gerring grunted. "Near a hundred. Leshen in the square protects them so don't piss him off."

"A leshen?" Aiden chirped. Curiosity welled under his skin, making him tingle. He couldn't wait to get out and see what had changed in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Aiden is kinda OCC in general because he's literally a metaphorical blank slate but I feel I didn't do him enough justice with my sleep deprived state. Just, you know.
> 
> Tell me what you want me to write. Please 
> 
> Feed the writing monster. I beg


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